


The Demon Cure

by 1shouldbe_sleeping



Series: The Angel Feather [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelic Grace, Angelic Lore, Biblical References, F/M, I don't even know to be honest, It's its own thing, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 09, References to Supernatural (TV), Season/Series 08-09 Hiatus, Slow Build, like incredibly slow, something along those lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 86,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1shouldbe_sleeping/pseuds/1shouldbe_sleeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whoa-ho-ho,” a third Leviathan chuckled. He advanced on Dean. “You are <i>tainted</i>, Dean Winchester. Tainted and broken, indeed.” His smile fell from his face, and a deep growl rumbled in his chest. “I’d like to see what a tainted Winchester tastes like.” His head transformed into a gaping mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth.</p><p>“Oh I ain’t tainted,” Dean replied. He blinked, and he felt a slight irritation in his eyes. Like dust had flown into them. He heard a <i>click.</i> “I’m <i>pure.</i>”<br/>--<br/>A year has passed since Dean Winchester switched places with Castiel inside the Archangel cage, and by some miracle, Dean has been set free -- but he isn't entirely Dean. While he adjusts to his new life, Sam and Castiel have been trying their best to deal with the aftermath of the cage: Sam has been desperately (and obsessively) searching for Sheila and get what he promised: his brother alive and well. Castiel, unbalanced with grief and uncertainty, begins to question his own angelic nature when he meets an Archangel who hasn't been seen for over a millennium. Dean, Sam, and Castiel are facing more than just their own inevitable conflict; they're coming face-to-face with their own humanity as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Dean

Time had lost its meaning. Hours melded into days upon days – Dean Winchester could have been locked in the cage for years as far as he knew. When he was in Hell, he at least was able to count the days that melted into years: Alistair reminded him of the years that he had been burning in Hell, and each year was a year closer to turning the tables and becoming the torturer rather than the tortured. Now he was strapped upon the rack again with Alistair before him tearing him apart one piece at a time. Time did not matter anyway. What good would it do Dean? Counting the minutes he was being tortured only reminded him of the infinite amount of minutes and hours and days he had ahead of him. The cage was at least kinder than Hell in that sense.

 _But it still has Alistair,_ Dean thought viciously.

Alistair, his old mentor in Hell. The cage was hell-bent on making the torture extremely personal: for Castiel, it was having a horde of demons and greater demons alike torturing him and nearly ripping his wings from his shoulders. For Dean, it was Hell, the place where he became the torturer rather than the tortured. He nearly lost himself down in the pit. That was torture to Dean – losing himself, becoming the monsters he killed. The cage knew that, which is why Alistair was there in the cage, once again trying to break Dean. 

The cage, however, also reminded Dean why he was in there in the first place – _Ohl mahl-pi-reh-gah nee-ees ah-me-rawn. My life for yours._ The human’s life for the archangel. This cage was designed to torture and shred an archangel, and Cas was almost trapped in here for good. Imagine what that could have done to him, Dean thought. Dean could not let that kind of torment and blood-letting happen to his angel. _My life for yours._ Dean’s life for Castiel’s. As long as Dean kept remembering that Cas was worth a thousand lashes and severed limbs, then he would not be so easily broken. The cage . . . it was only a veil separating Dean from the real world. Hope would keep him alive. He was strong. Maybe one day he’d get out. 

“Dean, you wound me,” Alistair replied. Dean sometimes wondered if Alistair could read his mind. There were days when Dean was positive Alistair could, like today, and other days Alistair had no clue that Dean was silently begging for mercy. “Am I not enough for you? There was a time that I was.”

“That was a long time ago, Alistair,” Dean huffed. He gulped, but his throat still felt dry, and he winced at the stabbing pain. It was like swallowing needles. “And since then, you’ve _died._ You’re long gone, you son of a bitch.”

“And since then, Dean-o, you’ve gone queer and sacrificed yourself for love,” Alistair replied. When Dean flinched at the word, Alistair smiled. “Ah, that’s the magic word, isn’t it?” he chuckled “ _Love._ That’s what got you in here, isn’t it? That’s what’ll get you out.” He spit in Dean’s face. Despite being covered in his own blood and dirtier than his car Baby driving through a dirt road, Dean muttered a, “Yuck,” and tried to wipe his cheek off on his sleeve. His face still felt slimy.

“How could love be so worth it if you’re still rotting here in Hell, huh?” Alistair waved at their surroundings. “It put you in here. You even _chose_ to be here for love, remember? There is no way I’m letting you back out. Your mine for the rest of eternity.” Alistair smiled, and he lifted the scythe up to Dean’s neck. “For better or worse.”

Dean grinned back. “Where can I sign the divorce papers?”

Alistair gave him a gory smile across his neck to shut him up before he tore at the rest of him. It did not hurt as bad this time. The torture – that sure felt the same as it did in Hell. Dean had nearly forgotten that Alistair’s torture fluctuated in pain: at times, his body numbed to the constant cutting and breaking and bleeding out, especially if it went on without end. Those were what Dean called the _Novocain Days._ Other times, after a long break of staring out into oblivion and hearing the screams of other souls, his skin became fresh and new and sensitive (those were the _Raw Meat Days_ ); it became raw and red, and even the slightest touch made him squirm. The lash of a whip or the kiss of a blade made Dean scream so loud that it shred his throat. Those were the times he was close to accepting that he would never see daylight again. But then he thought of Cas – Cas standing there in his stupid trench coat with a confused, constipated-faced and squinty-eyed expression; Cas, that nerdy, humanity-loving son of a bitch. That was what kept him fighting.

Even when Alistair made the last strike of the blade that ended Dean.

Dean suddenly woke, his heart and ears pounding, his breathing heavy. _Today,_ he thought. Something about today made him – well, it made it him anxious and it scared the shit out of him, whatever it was. Whatever day it was, or whatever month this day marked, something was _different._ A wave of cool air rolled onto him like a wave upon the sand, and it smelled earthy, which was a nice break from the sulfur stench of demons. It tasted metallic. It was almost too cold. Dean had gotten so used to the heat that anything lower then _fuckin’ hell-fire hot_ was almost unbearable to his fried skin. As soon as it left, however, he wanted more.

Alistair materialized out of thin air and walked over to his torture table, as Dean liked to call it, without saying a word. _It’s gonna be one of those days,_ Dean thought, and he rolled his eyes. He shifted his weight and the chains rattled. His left arm ached, and the latch holding him down had been digging into his skin for too long. It was tender and bloody.

“Mind cutting off my arm today, Ally?” Dean asked. He was only half-joking. With the way this wave of torture was going, he knew it was the Novocain Days. That’s why slicing his throat open yesterday – _a few hours ago, whatever,_ he thought – was not nearly as bad as it had been before.

“It’s gettin’ a little sore, you see,” Dean continued. Alistair did not acknowledge Dean in the slightest. “Come on, buddy ‘ole pal, I’m just trying to help you out. Can’t blame me for wanting to shake things up a bit, huh? Look, I’ll scream extra loud for you, okay? I’ve heard I’m a screamer.” When Alistair took the bait and looked, Dean winked at him. Alistair looked down again and Dean chuckled.

Alistair did not say a word. It was not wholly unusual; however, Dean had expected a few missing limbs or organs after a few hours. Alistair never made a move. He only sat there sharpening his many blades, one by one. He checked to see that his whip was not in danger of breaking. The chains he sometimes used to beat Dean to a bloody pulp were rattled and checked for any weak links. The rack on which Dean hung was secured, though there was no way in Hell – _nice one, Dean,_ he chuckled to himself – he was gonna bust out of those. It was not until after Alistair started sharpening and polishing his blades for a second time that Dean started to become antsy.

 _Come on, man, get it over with,_ Dean thought. The not knowing – that is what usually got Dean every time. Not knowing if he was going to be sliced open at any moment. Not knowing if this was the end of the _Novocain Days_ and the start of the _Raw Meat Days._ If it was, this was a new tactic. Making Dean go nuts with the uncertainty of it all. It was a new kind of torture, one that messed with his mind rather than his body, and Dean would rather have the latter. He hated to admit it, but he was almost begging for the steel kiss of one of Alistair’s beloved blades.

After what felt like days, Alistair spoke: “You know, Dean,” – the sound of the flint made an especially cringing shriek, and Dean shrunk back – “you rescued your angel for love.” Dean raised an eyebrow at the greater demon. “You also rescued Sam from death by selling your soul,” Alistair mused. “You rescued your angel from Purgatory, and then you rescued him from this Hell that you’re now in. . . .” The flint ran across the scythe once more. “So you have this idea that love . . . _saves_ , am I correct?”

“Get to the point, Alistair,” Dean growled, and he immediately shut his mouth tight. He should not be egging the greater demon on; however, the subject was too touchy for Dean, and it made him edgy, twitchy, like little bugs were crawling under his skin and he couldn’t scratch them.

Alistair gave the hint of a smile on the edge of his lips. Something sparked in his eyes, too, and Dean hated himself for it. “Do you notice a pattern here?” the greater demon suggested. “ _You_ rescued your brother, _you_ rescued your angel, _you_ rescued all these people. . . .” Alistair stopped to smile at Dean, but it was far from friendly. “But they never rescue you. Did you – did you notice that, Dean? You rescue and save all for the name of love but they don’t save you.”

“No,” Dean argued stubbornly. He knew responding to Alistair was only going to fuel the greater demon, but he had to say something. He had to convince himself that what Alistair was saying was not true. “No, you’re wrong – Sam tried saving me from Hell the first time I went –”

“So, Sam _tried_ to rescue you,” Alistair rebutted, “just like he tried to rescue you from _Purgatory?_ ” Dean stopped breathing. “He _left_ you there – he didn’t even _try_ , Dean.”

Dean was desperate now because Alistair was right – Sam did not even try to look for Dean. He holed up with some chick because he never wanted to live their hunter life anyway. His brother was gone, so, why not live that apple pie life he always pined for? _He didn’t even try,_ Dean thought dejectedly. But he knew that couldn’t be all true – and yet it nagged at him. Why did it nag at him? Why was he letting it get to him? He felt his hope deflating and he had no air in his lungs left to breathe it back to life. Did he always have that little hope? Alistair could not know that what he was saying was making Dean squirm, so Dean rolled his eyes.

Alistair was not convinced. That was why he laughed. 

“But what about Cas?” Dean argued. “I thought I left him behind and failed him, but I didn’t – _he_ saved _me_ , which is why that damn feather worked.”

“Oh, that’s right – Cas saved you from Purgatory, but what did he do after?” Alistair paused for effect. “He up and left you and nearly killed you – and he didn’t even apologize! He ran off with his little tablet because he didn’t _trust you._ ” Alistair took a moment to laugh. If he was laughing to make Dean’s blood boil, it worked. “Yeah, sure, you rescued them all with the power of _love_ , you big ‘ole softy – but did they love you enough to return the favor? Does love really rescue?” 

Dean was writhing in his chains. Of all the things that tortured him the most, it had to be this. Having his skin slowly ripped from his body before he was whipped with countless lashes did not torture him nearly as much as this. Dean would have preferred bleeding out over this any day, because at least that had some peace to it. He simply let the blood flow and went to sleep, and he always came back, whether it was to the Raw Meat Days or the Novocain Days, he always came back, knowing that he did this for Cas. Knowing that love would maybe rescue him this time. _Who are you fooling, Dean? he asked himself. This is why you bury this shit – it only comes back to bite you in the ass._

Alistair sighed and hung his head; he slumped his shoulders. “I’m not cruel, Dean; I’m only trying to help you realize: sure, you loved your angel and your brother enough to save them countless times, and you made a big sacrifice for Castiel – hell, it was the revelation of your secret gay love for him.” Dean flinched. He didn’t know what he was – queer, straight, all of the above, but what he did know was that Cas _meant_ something to him. That was what killed him, both literally and symbolically. Dean was dead to the outside world but dying on the inside in this damn cage. 

“You thought it _must_ be enough to save you,” Alistair continued, very aware that Dean was breaking, “and you thought, ‘I love him, he loves me, so he’ll rescue me like I rescued him, and that’s worth being in here.’” He paused and took a look around the room. “Well, where is he? Where is he to grip you tight and raise you from perdition, Dean-o?” Alistair faked a gasp and covered his mouth with a feigned sympathetic upturn to his brow. “He’s – he’s not here. He’s _never_ going to be here.”

Dean was able to keep a straight face up until then. He had embraced the good soldier persona he always put on for his dad, because that was the persona that never let emotion out. That was the persona that was all business – no squishy chick moments allowed. He was good at burying those damn emotions beneath tons of concrete in his mind, and he guarded them with his life. Those were never meant to see the light of day, _especially_ those feelings for Castiel. Those were far from ready for revealing. He had allowed himself to acknowledge those feelings because that was what saved Cas – _and now look where that shit got you,_ he thought bitterly. Dean closed his eyes tight and hung his head in defeat. The good soldier fell in a bloody heap with his heart on his sleeve. At first Dean thought it was anger that made his whole body shake; however, he realized that his breath was hitched and that fat tears were welling up in his eyes, and it was not anger at all, but instead utter surrender. _Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Fuck you, Dean, fuck you for giving yourself false hope_ , Dean shouted at himself.

A burst of pure white light broke through the veil and blinded Dean. His surroundings became flashing images of Alistair wrestling with the light as he blinked rapidly to adjust to the brightness. A high-pitched ringing began to build in intensity, and it mixed in with the greater demon’s grunts and groans of pain. Dean began to pant and tried his best to see what was transpiring before him, but the light hurt his eyes. Though the mysterious entity was obviously getting the better of Alistair, Dean still was afraid. His heart beat too quickly and his wrist were raw with trying to free themselves from his restraints. It became hard for him to breathe. The high-pitched ringing became far too loud in his ears and they began to bleed. Alistair screamed, and had Dean not been screaming as well, he would have enjoyed his torturer’s wails.

It ended as quickly as it began. Alistair gave out a final cry as a bright light poured out from his eyes and mouth. Dean would have loved to watch, but he had to close his eyes, for the light of Alistair’s death was too bright. Stars burst behind Dean’s eyelids. He panted heavily in near hyperventilation. It was the only sound to fill the silence. Dean was almost afraid to open his eyes: if this was a new entity designed by the cage to torture Dean, he did not want to look at it; if it was not that, God knows what it could be. He could stand not knowing if he was going to be killed by it.

A husky voice said, “Alistair was wrong. I am here.”

Dean held his breath. He knew that voice anywhere. His heart dropped to his stomach and he wanted to throw up. When Dean opened his eyes, Castiel the Angel of Thursday stood before him. A dull white-gold glow surrounded him. His magnificent black and azure-tipped wings spread wide. Dean allowed himself to revel in the beauty that was before him and breathed, _“Cas,”_ for that was all he could muster. _That’s_ what the blast of cold air was earlier – it was Cas coming to get him out of the cage.

Castiel actually grinned, and his sad eyes, at first deadly, were now soft. “Don’t worry, Dean, I’ve got you.”

Dean was speechless. Cas came over to undo the restraints, and Dean allowed himself to feel relieved. Alistair was wrong, _thank God he was wrong,_ and now that son of a bitch was dead. Now he was dead and Dean was free. Dean was so overwhelmed that everything in him was threatening to spill over in tears, and he was not known for being able to hold back tears. He did not care. It was _Cas._

“Cas, I – I just,” Dean stammered as the last bit of his restraints were torn away. He had not realized how weak he was, and he fell into Castiel’s arms. This body warmth was so welcoming compared to the lonely hellish heat of this damn cage, and Dean so needed to be held like this; being held together instead of being torn apart felt _so damn good._

“Dean, we have to go,” Castiel said. He held Dean up on his feet. “Come on, you have to walk, you can do it.” Dean only nodded. “Let’s go home.”

Dean brought a hand over to Castiel’s chest and gripped a fistful of shirt. “I am home,” Dean murmured. He was raw and broken and vulnerable, and he no longer cared if Cas knew how Dean felt. He was too overwhelmed with everything; he no longer had filters and barriers, no concrete prisons. He was _free._

“Yes,” Castiel said, and met Dean’s eyes. The angel licked his chapped lips. Dean’s heart skipped a beat. He did not notice Castiel reaching into his pocket. “You are.” He pulled something out. His lips curled and bared his teeth. Dean had no time to even question what was happening until Castiel drove an angel blade through his chest. 

A searing heat burst in his heart and spread through his veins like merciless hell-fire, and Dean wailed. The room transformed around him as Castiel pushed his back to a wall. White walls and white floors replaced the red glow of his personal Hell. He could not tell where floor ended and wall began, he was just surrounded by white. All he felt was the burning and the bleeding and the utter _betrayal_. Cas was never here to rescue him. The more Dean looked at Cas, the more he realized it looked nothing like Cas: there was no light in his blue eyes, his wings disintegrated into bone and wilting feathers, and his mouth curled into a smile not unlike Alistair’s. The cage was reminding him that nobody was going to save him; it was reminding him that he may have sacrificed himself for love, but love was what got him in here in the first place, and he was stupid for going along with it at all.

Fake Castiel carved into Dean’s chest and twisted the blade. The wails of agony tore up Dean’s throat and shredded his lungs.

In the midst of his pain, of having his heart carved out of his chest, Dean came to a revelation: this cage was his home, not Castiel. He could not count on that anymore. He thought holding onto Cas and Sam would keep him chained to what was real and what was not, but the cage was real – that was his reality, that was his life, and that was what he needed to learn. Perhaps Alistair was right: he was never being cruel, no – he was only saving Dean the disappointment.

Castiel slowly pulled the blade out from Dean’s skin, and the pain ceased. The blade fell to the floor in a clatter. Castiel reached inside Dean and pulled out a scorched, black, stinking thing. Dean looked down to investigate and found that it was the remains of what used to be his heart. He was almost shocked at how he did not even flinch at the sight of it. He did not care. He ought to have been rid of it long ago.

Castiel held Dean’s burnt and broken heart to his chest, and it turned to ash. When he spoke, his voice was echoed with a female’s voice: “To free the angel, the lover shall place a kiss upon the angel and declare, _My life for yours_ , and thus the lover shall take the angel’s place.” A hazy memory bubbled in Dean’s mind: it was the night he switched places with Cas at the amusement park. Those were the instructions he was given to free Castiel. What was said next was new to him: “And inside the cage a transformation shall occur: the human lover will cease to breathe, and their humanity will be stripped from their soul. A blackened heart and blackened soul will be all that shall remain, for human they will be no longer.”

Dean closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, no longer able to hold himself up. Something broke in him – it was not merely bones nor his heart that was broken; it was his very core that fractured. It was as though hinges went out of place and connected to new ones. His whole chemistry bubbled and began anew. It hurt at first: his bones crackled and his muscles cramped up; his throat closed up and he gasped for breath; and his head felt as though someone put a hammer to it over and over. Had he a heart, it would have ached. 

And then it stopped; a wave of blissful, numbing nothingness washed it all away. For a moment, Dean felt disconnected from his body, and everything tingled. As the tingling ceased, his strength returned, and he felt . . . _powerful,_ Dean thought, pinpointing this new feeling.

“Open your eyes,” the echoey voice said, and when he did, Castiel no longer stood before him; in his place was a mirror framed in intricately carved wood. The creature staring back at Dean was familiar: the same sun-kissed skin, hints of freckles spread across his face, and the same wide green eyes. Although he just underwent a huge and painful change, physically he looked the same.

When he blinked, however, a click filled the silence, and all black eyes stared back at him.

He reached out to touch his reflection. The mirror shattered, and the walls around him crumbled. He put his arm over his head to protect himself from the falling debris. When the rumbling ceased, he opened his eyes once more. He was surrounded by a very alive forest, but it was not just any forest: Dean found himself in Purgatory once more. _That’s what Sheila said, right,_ Dean recalled. _The cage would transport itself to the most fucked up part of Purgatory._ The last time Dean found himself in Purgatory, he was abandoned by the angel Castiel. Unlike last time, however, Dean was hardly afraid. He felt elated. When he realized a horde of Leviathan all looked upon him with hunger and curiosity in their eyes, his blood pumped with anticipation. No fear would be found in him this time.

“I recognize you,” one of the Leviathan said. “You’re Dean Winchester.”

“Not anymore,” another said. “He’s not the fragile human we met before.”

Dean clenched his fist tight, and the ground beneath him rumbled. A fallen log somewhere behind him exploded in splinters of wood, and rocks cracked open. If it was a challenge they wanted, it was a challenge they would get. Dean was in no rush. Besides, he was _loving_ this burst of power.

“Whoa-ho-ho,” a third Leviathan chuckled. He advanced on Dean. “You are _tainted,_ Dean Winchester. Tainted and broken, indeed.” His smile fell from his face, and a deep growl rumbled in his chest. “I’d like to see what a tainted Winchester tastes like.” His head transformed into a gaping mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth.

“Oh I ain’t tainted,” Dean replied. He blinked, and he felt a slight irritation in his eyes. Like dust had flown into them. He heard a _click._ “I’m _pure._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, guys! I don't have a concrete posting schedule yet so just keep your eyes peeled for new chapters! :D Hope you all enjoy! Feel free to leave comments, lovelies!
> 
> The music for the prologue shall be:
> 
> 1\. [The Mighty Rio Grande](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oa6wrg-cJxc) \- This Will Destroy You  
> 2\. [The Hunt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1OHokzUwQI) \- District Tribute


	2. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel met the eyes of the whisperer, and a horribly marred demonic face stared back. It did not matter what Castiel did now. He waited too long. He did not hide himself well enough. A Legion had found him, and he had to act now or find himself amongst piles of dead humans. His fingers went numb and the tips burned with the build-up of angelic magic.

Castiel walked into the den of inequity with a scowl. It was not the scantily clad women nor the smell of flaring hormones and too much cologne and perfume wafting through the air that made him glower at everyone, although that would give any angel – except perhaps Balthazar – a disgusted frown. The reason Castiel’s skin was crawling was because this was the same den where he was slapped across the face by a stripper. If he looked over to his left, the back exit stared back. In his mind’s eye he could see himself and Dean leaving out that door in a hurry to avoid the security guards. Castiel could still hear Dean’s mischievous laughter, and he closed his eyes. Despite the scent of sweat, hormones, alcohol, and smoke in the air, Castiel forced himself to take a deep breathe. It pushed down the grief bubbling up in his chest. _You’re here on a job,_ he reminded himself. _You’re not here to reminisce._

The angel combed the room and actually _looked_ at the people – strippers and customers alike – in search of any signs of corruption. Specifically, any signs of possession. He had been watching this town for weeks now, as it had been exhibiting demonic omens. Castiel was trying to pinpoint the occurrence of the most demonic activity, and he was failing: the bodies piled up, the air smelled more and more like sulfur, and more blood was painting the streets. After the third day of finding yet another degraded and gory body torn apart and shredded like paper, Castiel thought it would be best to go to Sam Winchester. The angel was only looking at the body count and where he found them (they were _everywhere_ in the town, not centered in one specific place), which was throwing him for a loop. When Sam brought out a map and asked Castiel to mark everywhere he found a body, it all started to become clearer: Sam linked the bodies together and pointed out a center where no bodies were found, but where all the bodies surrounded: the strip club. 

Before Castiel left the bunker, Sam asked, not for the first time, “Why didn’t you come to me sooner if you needed help, Cas?” 

Castiel had left without answering. He, for lack of a less cowardly word, had been avoiding Sam for the past year since Dean’s . . . death, disappearance, state of limbo – Castiel did not know what to call it, but whatever it was, he blamed himself for it. He knew Sam did not necessarily hold Castiel responsible for the fate Dean chose, but no matter how many pats on the back and words of reassurance Sam gave the angel, Castiel was still crushed beneath the weight of guilt. He, however, needed help, and Sam was the only other person left in the world he trusted. 

In the year since the incident, Castiel had been trying to stop the Legion from becoming the next apocalypse. They no longer had Logan – rather, the demon possessing Logan, the creator of Legion demons – so they no longer had organized command, and no orders to trap anymore angels. Legion were in their very essence chaotic, and that was what they were in the first few months after their leader was killed: the body count was getting far too high for Castiel, as was the number of Legion, which in itself was a baffling concept. Castiel and Sam were able to neutralize a known horde after the first four months, and the Legion had become less chaotic and less adventurous in their slaughters. This bought Sam time to do his own hunting for Sheila, the demon who helped him essentially save Castiel by saving Dean. Castiel could not do much to help except find Legion demons before they killed too many people and bring a couple to Sam so he could interrogate them. Castiel could handle the large numbers while Sam handled the one. That was the deal Castiel forced upon Sam as it required seeing him far less, and it also kept Castiel busy. Smiting demons and protecting humans was at the core of his nature, and being an angel was a lot easier than being anything close to human for Castiel.

Castiel had been skulking around one corner for too long. Humans were starting to notice him, a loner without a woman to ogle or fondle. He did not need attention drawn to him lest he be given away. It would not be long until he was noticed by any demons, were there any; thus, he had a small window to take them by surprise. Castiel walked around, trying to be casual, but since he was awkward, as was said by Dean on various occasions, he doubted that he really looked casual. He was graceful, however: he weaved through tables and people with ease and without bumping any shoulders or knocking over any tables with his wings.

After going about the entire building, Castiel nearly gave up – he had found no signs of demons at all. Had he and Sam been wrong? Over the past few months, the Legion seemed to be getting more organized, which, for Legion, the definition of chaos, was strange indeed. They were strategic in their killings and timing and leaving one body after the next as distraction and committing one huge slaughter before moving on. That happened twice to Castiel before he noticed the pattern, and before he went to Sam for help. Neither of them needed help noticing that during the hiatus after the destruction of the horde, the Legion were becoming an organized chaos. They were anticipating interferences with their massacres. They were leaving distractions for their escapes. Could they have already left this town and moved onto the next? _Have we made a mistake?_ Castiel asked himself once more.

Castiel knew that in the past year he had begun to slip in his abilities to track and terminate demons; he was usually better at this. The voice in the back of his mind told him that he was becoming too human, too ruled by his emotions, and it was making him slow. Grief and guilt were holding him back. Castiel ignored it as best as he could. Aside from Sam, he was a lone angel smiting enough for a garrison. Emotions or not, where was heaven’s host when he needed them?

Suddenly, the group of current strippers left through some doors leading to back rooms, and a new group walked in. A new shift of employees. They were all aesthetically pleasing and hardly looked different from the last group of women – but that’s how they looked to any normal human. Castiel saw through their vessels, and had to hold back the buildup of angelic magic pulsating through his body. The Legion were possessing the strippers, and when Castiel began to ask what purpose it served, it became clear: just as he had been taken to a back room for a private strip session, so were these customers. These lustful customers would willingly follow these possessed women anywhere. With a door closed and an unsuspecting human, a Legion demon could easily slaughter the human and dump their body a few blocks away from the building. _How are they so organized in all this?_ Castiel asked himself. _They must have a new leader. That’s the only explanation for the lack of chaos coming from these Legion._

Castiel had figured out that the Legion demons were here, and what they were doing here – the only thing left to do was formulate a plan that ended in the smiting of the demons and the safety of the humans. He could not go after them one at a time, as that might give the Legion not being smote a chance to escape, and there was no guarantee humans would not get caught in the crossfire. A massive smiting would absolutely guarantee the death of humans along with the Legion. If humans died, that only meant more souls for the Legion to _somehow_ intercept and send to Hell for the most gruesome torture that would lead to the birth of new Legion, _however they are achieving that,_ Castiel thought bitterly. With this in mind, it was paramount Castiel did not allow any human to die tonight.

“You’re pretty,” a voice whispered nearby.

Castiel met the eyes of the whisperer, and a horribly marred demonic face stared back. It did not matter what Castiel did now. He waited too long. He did not hide himself well enough. A Legion had found him, and he had to act now or find himself amongst piles of dead humans. His fingers went numb and the tips burned with the build-up of angelic magic. 

The Legion walked closer to him with a grin on her face and hooded eyelids. She did not attack. She did not warn the others. She simply walked closer, backed Castiel into the corner, and stroked her fingers against his cheek. Her touch was lighter than the touch of a feather.

“Why are you so pretty?” she asked. Her eyes turned all black, but there was no hint of hostility. She must have been a newborn, not yet schooled in the ways of her kind and Castiel’s. These Legion were pawns, workers, not confidants. _How have you come to be?_ Castiel thought angrily. _How is your soul not in heaven as it should be?_

As she stroked Castiel’s cheek, she moved down to his neck and across his shoulder. She stopped and looked curiously at something behind him. It must have been his wings. They were tucked tightly against his back and ruffled with the confusion and tension. When the she-demon went out to touch Castiel’s wings, his automatic reaction was to prevent her from doing so. He walked forward, pushing her back, and as he did so he splayed out his wings.

“No, no,” she moaned. She cradled her face in her hands and began to cry. It grew louder. Castiel looked around the room. A few eyes – human eyes, not demons’ – began to spy on them, and Castiel knew he would soon be exposed. Suddenly, the she-demon threw her hands from her face and looked up at Castiel, but only for a moment before she gazed upon his wings once again. “They hurt – they hurt to look at, why, why?” she cried. And then she screamed.

Humans and Legion alike stared at them. All black eyes mixed with the various other eye colors met the angel’s blue ones. Castiel reached out a hand and covered the demon’s mouth before burning it out of the human. Pure blue-white light poured from her eyes, and when the burnt-out husk of a body collapsed, Castiel faced his enemies head on. His wings flared out instinctually in a predatory display. The Legion demon’s scream was almost satisfying; had the other Legion not begun screaming in rage and the humans in fear, he would have been more contented.

Castiel was surrounded, but as Raphael the archangel once told him, he did well when surrounded. While two demons tried to come at him from behind, he flung out his wings and knocked them back, and he smote two other demons with both hands. While the first two reeled, another three came at him. He knocked one back with telekinesis, smote the other with one hand, and choked the third. When he quashed those three, he dealt with the other two. Castiel might have felt accomplished had the screams of dying humans not filled his ears. As he looked around the room, smiting demon after demon, being pushed around and clawed at, the angel witnessed merciless carnage. It did not matter how many demons he slew, for the body count the Legion made was higher than that of their own dead Castiel left behind. He smote so many demons, made known only by scars left behind, missing feathers, and whiplash from being knocked back on his feet by demonic telekinesis; and yet, with each Legion dead, he still found two more dead humans. Castiel wished he could split himself into twos, fours, hundreds, enough to make a garrison that could slay these Legion, their numbers impossibly growing, within minutes with hardly any collateral damage. That was not the case, and Castiel never had his wishes granted. His prayers have gone unanswered since the end of the apocalypse.

When all was said and done, Castiel watched as the last two Legion demons escape from their vessels in blood-curdling screams, leaving their vessels with punctured eye-sockets and broken necks. The angel was left standing amongst burnt out husks and bloody corpses. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep for the dead humans, and he wanted to curse the angels for their silence. Sam would not have helped in the slightest. Looking back, the horde Castiel and Sam faced months ago was child’s play – the Legion were clumsy and begging for death. This horde? They were a _legion_ , and what were one hunter and one angel against a legion? A whole garrison – even a half – would have had a far greater advantage than one lone angel.

“Do you hear their screams?” Castiel prayed aloud, staring down at his own hands, red with demon blood and the blood of the humans he failed to save. “Do you even care that these humans are suffering?” He lost control of his composure and gave in to his anger: he pushed over a table, kicked a chair, made all the lights above him explode in showers of sparks. “We are angels, and we are supposed to be protecting these humans!” Castiel shouted up at the heavens. “None of you will even lift a _finger_ to save these humans from the slaughtering! What kind of angels are you?” Castiel pulled his wings tightly against his body and hung his head. “What kind of angel am _I_?” he whispered.

“The kind that loves humanity far too much,” a voice said from behind. Castiel wheeled around. Muriel, an angel he had only met once in passing, stood before him wearing the vessel of a young woman. She was blonde with a thin upper lip and wide eyes. “We hear you, Castiel.”

“The butcher has already ended, sister,” Castiel snapped. His wings stretched and the feathers puffed out. He kept his arms pinned to his sides as his fists clenched and unclenched. “Were you listening to their screams, you would have noticed.”

She ignored his remark completely, and yet her furrowed brow and watery eyes revealed that she heard Castiel perfectly. “You have been summoned, Castiel.” She looked around the room, her eyes growing red. When she looked at Castiel a small pool of tears had formed at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Castiel,” she whispered. Seeing an angel overwhelmed with emotion was rare to see, which made it all the more heartbreaking for Castiel. He sighed and drooped his wings. Muriel walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, and in an instant, they were before the pearly white Gates of Heaven.

Castiel took a moment to revel in their beauty. Their brilliant iridescent pearl color with a hint of gold was made more magnificent with the glow of souls and angels alike. Castiel suddenly felt home sick as well as unworthy. He had ached for these Gates in times of great duress while on earth, for there was chaos in the midst of human emotion, and in Heaven there was order. He also feared that order – he had gone against it time and time again for his love of humanity and their disarray of emotions; he lusted after humanity and all it entailed enough to reject Heaven. When being human adjacent became too overwhelming, however, Castiel ached to be an angel. Who but Anna and Balthazar understood that? They were dead.

The Gates of Heaven sensed the presence of celestial beings and opened. The sound of singing archangels filled the air, and Castiel felt a pang in his heart. He remembered as a fledgling, in the early days of newborn earth, that the archangels would sing of God’s beautiful creations. When Lucifer fell, the archangels stopped singing, and the more humanity evolved, the less they sang. It broke Castiel’s heart to hear the singing, for it was only a memory, an echo from a more peaceful time.

When Castiel and Muriel walked through the gates, she said, “I have been ordered to take you to weapons manufacturing and training.” Her eyes were downcast. 

“By whom have you been ordered?” Castiel asked slowly. It did not go unnoticed that Muriel’s creamy wings, tipped in deep brown, were quivering. “Muriel.”

Her eyes met Castiel’s. They were dilated in fear. She opened her mouth to speak, but she thought better of what she was going to say and closed it. She looked down again, took a deep breathe, and when she looked up again her shoulders were squared. The good soldier returned. “He said you should report to him immediately upon your arrival. He . . .” Muriel gulped. “He does not like to be kept waiting.”

Before Castiel could inquire further, Muriel spread her wings and fled. Castiel tsked and clenched his jaw. The only time he had seen angels (particularly the younger angels) cower in fear like that was in the presence of archangels. Muriel was young, and she was low in rankings as a soldier because of her inexperience. She would have hardly spoke to an archangel in her time, only received orders from one through a higher commanding angel or seraph, such as Castiel. The problem was there were so few archangels left in Heaven. Raphael was no longer in commission, thanks to Castiel; Michael was in the cage with Lucifer; Gabriel was killed by Lucifer; and the only other archangels left alive were ones that had not been in Heaven since Castiel was a fledgling. Could Raphael still be alive? Could Gabriel? For Castiel’s sake, he hoped it was Gabriel.

Castiel spread his wings and teleported to Gabriel’s old paradise, which was remodeled into weapons manufacturing and training after he left. When God created Heaven and his archangels, he gave them their own paradises, just as human souls have their own paradises. The archangel’s paradises were built for them to guardian over humans on earth and in Heaven, and it was a place for the archangels to prostrate themselves before God in worship or prayer. In their paradise, they would receive commands from their Heavenly Father; however, when Lucifer fell, and when earth was no longer as beautiful as God had originally planned, Father stopped speaking to his angels. _When there is no Father with whom to speak, what good is the archangel’s paradise?_ Castiel asked.

Gabriel’s old paradise was remodeled to a building with large glass and chrome walls, cold and structured, when it was once a mansion that never had a window closed. Despite the change, the air still smelled sweet, just the way Gabriel liked it. Castiel walked through the doors and felt a chill in the air. He walked down halls and went to where Balthazar, during their time in the apocalypse, would hold meetings to discuss war plans. It was a big conference room with a long, oval table and white walls. It gave Castiel a headache. When he walked through the door, that was what he expected: a headache. Instead, he came face to face with a resurrected Raphael residing in his old vessel, the one with the eyes that bore into Castiel’s core and saw every flaw, every wrongdoing. Castiel hated that vessel, but the repulsion was nowhere close to the utter fear that struck his heart. Raphael surely held a vendetta.

“Castiel, my young brother,” Raphael said in his deep baritone voice. “Nice to see you. Pray, tell me: what have you been doing since you killed me?”

Castiel’s feathers puffed up and his wings spread out wide to make himself seem larger. Instinctual, the peacocking, the feigned appearance of strength. Raphael had three great pale yellow wings that made Castiel, a seraph beneath an archangel, shrink back in submission. It was the order of Heaven that any angel obey an archangel. It was one of the reasons Castiel remained on earth when he left Heaven.

“Enough, Raphael,” a cool voice said from behind the archangel. Castiel was so taken aback by the sight of a very alive Raphael that he hardly noticed the presence of another angel. “I will speak to Castiel _alone_.”

“As you wish, brother,” Raphael replied, and he walked past Castiel with a brush to the shoulder with his wings. Castiel watched him leave with a wary eye.

“Castiel, we have not met,” the other angel said.

“No,” Castiel agreed, and he watched the door as it closed behind Raphael. Any angel who could order Raphael around was one that Castiel was glad he had not met. “But you seem to know who I am.”

Castiel turned to face the angel – the archangel – and he was taken by surprise. This angel said they had not met, but Castiel was sure he had seen the archangel’s true form before. It was in a distant memory, one that faded with age and became fuzzy and hard to think about for too long. 

“Are you sure I do not . . . know you?” Castiel asked. He did not mean to, but his curiosity got the better of him. That was always Castiel’s downfall – his curiosity.

“You would not. I have been wandering the deserts for thousands of years to know our Father, to better worship him and humble myself.” Castiel’s wings puffed up. He may not be as faithful as he once was, but hearing this little detail made his very core want to bow down in respect and proclaim his insignificance. This bit of news also explained why Muriel was so frightened: this archangel was the epitome of a celestial being created by God; he was an archangel worthy of the title.

“I am Zadkiel,” the archangel said. Castiel’s angelic core was begging him to show his respect and cast his eyes downward, but Castiel had not let himself be an angel in so long. He was well experienced in fighting those instincts. He stared, and he did not waver. “And I will be the one who decides your fate as an angel of Heaven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, I'm really busy, but since I have a little break I decided to post the first official chapter of this! :) Thanks for hanging in there, lovelies. And, as always, thanks for reading. I honestly don't know when I will post the following chapters but it's lookin' like May. I don't know what my schedule is going to be but I know it's going to be HELLA busy.
> 
> See ya next time lovelies! :)


	3. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he drove, he prayed to Castiel. He only repeated one thing: _I found her, Cas. I found Sheila. Meet me at that hospital you dumped me at, damn you._

Sam Winchester woke up to the echo of Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas in his ears. He shot up out of bed and hurried to his door, his bare feet screaming with the sudden contact with the cold cement floor, and his heart racing with the shock of waking up and becoming active so quickly. The song still echoed in his ears, but when he opened the door, it faded to nothing, and a merciless silence was the only thing to greet him. For a blissful moment, Sam thought things were back to normal – Dean being a complete ass and blasting his classic rock first thing in the morning, disrupting Sam’s sleep, and clanging around the kitchen and dining hall looking for coffee and clean mugs, throwing greasy bacon in a greasy pan and singing obnoxiously loud with his music. Sam hated it when Dean did that, but now with Dean gone, Sam yearned for the annoyance. There was nothing but an aching silence to greet his mornings now, and Sam, once a lover of simplistic silence, now killed it every chance he got.

Sam’s stomach growled. Now that his body was very awake, he was hungry. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and tousled his bedhead. He grabbed his cell phone off his desk and stretched on his way out the door. He checked his phone. No missed calls. Sam was expecting a call from Castiel yesterday after the angel finished his little mission on local Legion demons. Either he finished the job and decided not to tell Sam that one, it was finished, and two, he was still alive, or something happened that held him up and he was unable to call. There was a third scenario Sam refused to acknowledge, and he has had the whole year since Dean got trapped in the cage to practice pushing down the fear of that scenario. The angel would call. Even if it took him weeks, he would come calling.

A whole year. Sam walked into the dining room and opened the fridge. The bottle of amber liquid stared at him, asking him to take it out, and he obliged. He checked the hanging calendar near the fridge to double-check the day, and he was still right – the twelve-month anniversary of Dean’s disappearance had begun, and just like every monthly anniversary, Sam poured a drink for himself, and a drink for Dean. Sam thought this particular method was a better alternative to his initial one: drinking until he was passed out on his bed, too drunk and numb to even think about anything other than sleep and not throwing up.

“Here’s to you, Dean,” Sam said to the absence of Dean, and he gulped down the whisky. “That one’s mine,” he choked. The damn stuff burned on the way down, filling his stomach with fire that trailed up his throat and inhabited his lungs. How Dean could drink this stuff from the bottle at times was beyond Sam – but that was his brother, a high-functioning drunk. “Son of a bitch,” Sam muttered, reaching for the second glass. He tipped it to the absence of Dean and downed that whisky too, coughing and sputtering like a teenager having their first drink. He decided to pour another for Cas since he was not there to drink it himself. Burning. Sputtering. Fire down his throat.

_All right, Sam, now eat food,_ he told himself. With the fire from the whiskey now snaking through his veins, he went to the pantry. It felt like a peanut butter and banana sandwich day. He kept looking at his phone as he made the sandwich, expecting a call from Castiel, but of course received nothing. He knew he should have been used to the silence from the angel when Dean was not around – Castiel cared about Sam, sure, but he never came when Sam called. Always when Dean called. That should have tipped Sam off about Dean’s and Castiel’s closeted feelings for each other long ago. “Idiots,” Sam scoffed, only half joking. 

Sam brought his plate of food over to the main room and placed it on his usual work table, surrounded by scribbled notes, chargers for both his phone and laptop, and books. He turned on the table with the map of the US, and the markers of the most recent sightings of Sheila popped up. He did not bother pondering the pattern for too long. Whenever he thought he could predict where Sheila would be next, she changed her pattern completely and ended up being thousands of miles away from where Sam thought she would be next. But he kept at it because he knew she was the only thing that knew the ups and downs of the cage Dean put himself in. He looked at the last marker he had for her from three weeks ago and sighed before sitting down to eat his sandwich.

“All right, Sheila, are you out of hiding?” Sam sighed as he opened up the web browser. He used his usual method for finding cases to find Sheila. The last Legion demon he interrogated for information on Sheila was brought by Cas weeks ago, and all it did was torture itself (bit itself, rubbed against the restraints enough to make itself bleed, and broke its own neck). Sam did not have to lift a finger to make it bleed, and when he flashed the demon-killing knife, the demon begged for it. Interrogating these demons usually lasted hours, but Sam found a way that at least got him hints: whenever Sam mentioned Sheila the demons would go silent, their eyes would go black, and they’d spew out Latin and Enochian gibberish. Sam caught on and started recording it. He knew some Latin and absolutely no Enochian. Were Cas not avoiding Sam – _that angel can’t fool me_ , he thought bitterly, _I know he’s avoiding me_ – he could use the angel to translate the Enochian. Whenever Castiel was at the bunker with Sam, he was only there as a last resort, and he always left as soon as he got what he needed. Thus, Sam was left alone to translate Latin with what little knowledge he had of it.

Sam pulled up the recordings on his lap top and rummaged through his pile of crumbled notes to find his most recent translation of it. He pressed play on the recording and double-checked his translation. It was an old recording, one that led him to his most recent sighting of Sheila, but he thought maybe if he listened to it again he would learn something new. What information he gathered from his initial notes was that the demon was mentioning something that roughly translated to the “miracle worker” (that’s what the Legion called Sheila) saving “the sinners from the preachers.” Sure enough, Sheila had helped a prostitute from being murdered by a “righteous” priest. She had been following a trail across the neighboring state of Nebraska, and at her last siting, she was on the border between Kansas and Nebraska. She was that much closer to Sam, but as Sam had discovered, she could change that path at any moment.

As Sam listened to the recording, he searched for any recent “miracles” on news websites. Sheila was the Legion demon, the first of her kind, and because she was so old she had time to control the chaos rather than let it rule her: _“I read your future (and know your past), and from there I make you a deal; I can tell you a bit of your future, something that can save you or someone near and dear, and I make a deal: in return for the forewarning, I get something from you, my choice. . . . I have outgrown (for the most part) the need to cause chaos and swapped it for the power to contain it.”_ In cases Sam did find of her, she was doing just that – controlling the chaos. The citizen she aided called her a “miracle worker” just as the Legion did.

Sheila the miracle worker. That was who Sam agreed to work with a year and a half ago, and that was who withheld the truth from him a year ago to the date. He was promised his brother alive and all he got was a brother stuck in limbo, neither alive nor dead, stuck in a cage deep within Purgatory. There were days where he questioned why he searched so desperately for her, but that was exactly the answer: he was _desperate._ Last time Dean went to Purgatory, Sam gave up looking for him and tried to settle down. This time, he knew where Dean was, and he knew of only one person – one _demon_ – who knew how the cage in which Dean was trapped worked. Sam needed a miracle.

_And another drink,_ he added dryly, taking a swig of the water he grabbed from the fridge. It did not burn his throat like the whisky, but instead soothed it. Sam found himself craving the fire. _Someone has to be the alcoholic around here_ , he thought to himself with a chuckle. _If Dean isn’t here to be it, it’s up to me, right?_ Some days he was joking, other days he was not. Not enough of the day had passed for him to figure out what kind of day it was going to be.

Local Nebraskan news held no reports of other people being saved from homicidal priests or any other church-related murders being averted. Before he searched for any news in Nebraska, where Sheila was last scene, Sam took a moment to really listen to the recording. At first, he did not expect to find anything. He had a quick flashback to his college years where he would spend hours researching something that hardly gave him anything to work with, and yet he still spent hours on it. He had a tenacity then that told him he would eventually find sources and information that worked, and that same tenacity was still there. Although it was swallowed by grief and obligation to an angel who refused to work with him, that tenacity was still there.

_“Gah-no-nap geh-meh-ga-naz-ah oh-eh-cry-meh ohl ohl-lor exo-ti donec luna plena!”_ the demon growled in the recording. Sam nearly chocked on his water.  
He looked at his translation notes. They did not match up with what the demon said. Sam slicked his hair back. “ _That_ doesn’t sound right.”

When he rewound and played the sentence back, he slammed his fist on the table and knocked over all his notes. He resisted the urge to throw the laptop. “Fuck!” he growled, and he threw the water bottle. He stared at the screen and panted, his hands shaking. What he thought was Latin was actually Enochian; what he thought roughly translated to Sheila focusing on church-related deals “until the next full moon” was only _half_ true – she was doing something until the next full moon, _but it sure as fuck won’t be saving people from homicidal priests!_ Sam shouted in his head, and he slammed his fist on the table once more. How stupid can I get? That part was Enochian. When he first translated it, it sounded similar to Latin, but when the demon spoke it all sounded the same, thus making understanding and translating what it said difficult.

_I need Cas,_ Sam decided. _If he can’t handle working with me, fine, I can suck it up. I’ll remind him it’s not for me, it’s for Dean._

Sam inhaled deeply. Held his breath. Exhaled deeply. _Cas, come on. I know you don’t always answer my prayers, but I really need you._ Dean _really needs you – us. Neither of us can do this alone, and if we want to find Dean and try to get him out of that cage, we_ have _to work together. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. But I’m tired of doing this alone. I bet you are, too. Please. Help me._

Sam opened his eyes. He was not entirely surprised to find an empty room staring back at him. He sighed. Still alone.

Sam decided to check local Kansas news for anything – and he meant anything, because his hypothesis of church-related crimes was proven to be false. Miracles or close encounters to death of any sort. He combed through news reports, but the only thing even remotely miraculous was a happy news story of a kid urging her mother to go to the doctor to check for cancer. The woman _did_ have breast cancer, and it was caught in the early stages. Sam figured he would check it out. A video of the interview with the kid and her mother was on the website, and he sat back and watched. Two things caught his attention: one, the kid said, “I knew mommy had cancer because an angel told me she did,” to which the surrounding adults replied with a laugh; two, the only one who did not laugh was the doctor, who shared a smile with the little girl Just before the doctor looked back at the camera, his eyes switched from all white to brown. Sheila, being a greater demon, had all-white eyes like Lilith.

It was her. It had to be. _God damn it, it has to be,_ Sam thought. The hospital where the small miracle took place was the same hospital Sam woke up in after Dean traded places with Castiel in the cage. _This interview was taken ten hours ago. She could still be there._

Sam did not think. He did not remember grabbing the keys or his phone. All he knew was that he ran for the car.

As he drove, he prayed to Castiel. He only repeated one thing: _I found her, Cas. I found Sheila. Meet me at that hospital you dumped me at, damn you._

Sam arrived at the hospital within the hour. Walking up to the front doors caused Sam’s mind to feed him fleeting images of being left sick, unconscious, and nearly broken by Sheila. He remembered doctors being baffled by his condition. What Sam remembered most was the bone-chilling cold, a fever healed by Cas that only baffled the doctors even more. Apparently some of his organs began to fail, too. Castiel said it could have been the aftermath of being possessed by a greater demon. Another piece of information Sheila withheld from Sam, although he should not have been surprised – anyone playing with fire will get burned.

Sam walked through the doors. Time slowed down to a crawl. The world was cast in a red hue. His blood pumping through his ears drowned out all other noises. He walked up to the nearest nurse and asked to see the doctor from the interview, Dr. Wheeler. (How he remembered the name was beyond him). When the nurse refused to answer Sam whipped out his fake FBI badge and flaunted his robbed authority. After the nurse gave up the room number, he tried to inquire further, but Sam walked off. He was of a one track mind. His ears were now ringing. His heart pumped violently. His fingertips felt numb. He may have bumped into another nurse. He ignored the protests of people waiting for the elevator and flashed them his FBI badge again, forcing them to exit the elevator and leave it only for him. It was painfully slow. He should have taken the stairs.

When the elevator doors opened, he saw a sign pointing to the room number. Time became normal again, and his ears exploded with noises – machine beeps, wheels, coughing, footsteps, phones ringing. The room number sounded familiar, but because of his one-track mindedness, he could not recall anything significant about it. He pushed it down. He was on a mission. Dr. Wheeler was still here, possessed or unpossessed, and Sam was hoping (unfortunately for Dr. Wheeler) that it was the former.

The door was opened. Dr. Wheeler’s smooth voice filled the room. Sam’s eyes met his, and aside from the confusion in the doctor’s eyes, there was no tell-tale sign of Sheila. His eyes did not go white. He said something, but Sam could barely hear it. The ringing was returning.

Dr. Wheeler came closer to Sam. He heard a faint, “Are you all right?” but it sounded like it was underwater.

“I just – uh,” Sam sputtered. He pulled out his fake badge. “I needed to talk to you about a, uh, certain . . . matter, Dr. Wheeler.” Were this a normal case, Sam would slap himself for sounding so unprofessional. Cas could do a better job than this.

“Oh, all right, then,” Dr. Wheeler replied. His reaction was normal enough, but Sam was still suspicious. _Shouldn’t he ask what I’m talking to him about?_ Sam asked himself, trying to find hints as to whether the doctor was possessed or not.

Dr. Wheeler told his patient something about the effects of the drugs he had administered, but Sam was not paying attention. He was eyeing the doctor closely, trying to keep his breathing even, trying to regain his composure. Still, Sam’s heart pounded. When Dr. Wheeler looked up at Sam, he smiled, and he walked over to the window. Sam inched closer. 

“ _Please_ , Dr. Wheeler,” Sam insisted. He was getting impatient. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. “This is . . . urgent.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dr. Wheeler replied. Sam’s heart punched his ribs. “I’d love to stay and chat, Boy King” – his eyes turned white, and Sam’s muscles coiled like a spring – “but I have other wishes to grant.”

_“Sheila, wait!”_ Sam bellowed. The doctor screamed. Sam jumped back. The patient screamed, too, when a trail of black smoke rocketed out of the window. Sam joined in the screaming and began a reverse exorcism in desperacy: _“Et secta diabolica, omnis congregation, omnis legio”_ – the demon smoke thundered, curled, and shorted all the electricity in the hospital room – _“omnis incursio inernalis adversarii”_ – the doctor choked, but the demon smoke kept coming out, and it shrieked angrily, causing the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck to stand on end – _“omnis spiritus, exorcizamus te!”_

The doctor collapsed. The demon smoke fled out the open window. Had this been any other demon case, Sam would have been relieved that the demon abandoned its meatsuit. Instead, Sam wanted to punch the wall. “God _damn_ it!” he bellowed. He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white.

“Nurse!” the patient, a random man, shouted. “Security! Anybody!”

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” Sam growled. He stalked out of the room just as nurses and doctors were running to the room. Luckily for Sam, they were concerned more about the patient than him, and he was able to slip out and to the _Exit_ stairs unnoticed. He slammed the door leading to the stairs shut and leaned his forehead against it. Then he banged it with his fists, over and over. A jolt ran up his arm every time he hit the door, but he was so frustrated with himself he did not care.

Suddenly Sam’s phone began to ring, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He did not even realize he grabbed it before he left the bunker. The caller ID read _Castiel._

“Cas, are you okay?” Sam asked immediately. He made his way down the steps two at a time. “What happened? Did you hear my prayer?” 

Castiel interrupted: “Sam – ”

But Sam kept talking. “ _I had her,_ Cas, I had her, and she just – ” Sam paused. “Are you okay, Castiel?”

“I need you to come get me.”

Sam nearly ran into an adjacent wall with his momentum. “Where are you?”

“Sterling, Colorado. A park, I – I – don’t – know.” Castiel coughed, followed by a sickening gargling sound. Sam’s stomach dropped. “I’m – I’m bleeding.”

“Cas, get yourself to a hospital, damn it, don’t call me!” Sam snarled. He took a deep breath and composed himself. This was Cas, and he was _hurt._ Sam shoved his anger at himself and Sheila deep down in his stomach. _Cas is hurt, and he needs your help, Sam, so help him,_ he told himself. “I will be there as soon as I can. Get to a hospital.”

“I can’t feel my wings,” Cas whimpered. 

_“Listen to me,”_ Sam shouted, “and call an ambulance!” He made it to the first floor and ran out the doors, ignoring the protests and questions of bystanders. Castiel still did not reply coherently; he only responded in moans of pain. “What happened?!”

“I was cast out of heaven,” Cas answered. He coughed. More gurgling. “Zadkiel and Raphael, they – they cast me out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I have to say about my long absence is this: FINALS. It is the Saturday before Finals and I am at that point where I am studied out, so I spent some time writing (for fun, damn it!) and finally posting another chapter. I hope you guys enjoy. And please, feel free to leave feedback. Like I always say, I want to hear from you lovelies! After the 15th of May I will get on a regular weekly to every-other-week posting schedule. (Maybe after finals, though, I'll post an extra chapter!) Hope you guys liked it. Have a wonderful day!
> 
> Here's the songs for this chapter:
> 
> 1\. [Carry On Wayward Son](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X_2IdybTV0) \- Kansas (Sam waking up)  
> 2\. [Sail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgIqecROs5M) \- Awolnation (Sam finding Sheila: "It had to be her.")


	4. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stop fighting it, Dean,_ he told himself. _Stop fighting the demons and start fighting your humanity._

The smell of blood has never been sweeter: copper and rust and metallic in essence, falling like warm, crimson rain. To be the entity that causes it to flow out from an artery like a waterfall was intensely enjoyable for Dean. The Leviathan may not bleed red, but it smelled the same, flowed the same, and they still cried out when they bled. The vampires bled red, all right, and they looked surprised that a being other then they was so pleased with a fresh cut. Their look of surprise was their last. The werewolves, shape-shifters, wendigos – they all bled, they all had bones to break, they all screamed, and they all died. Hearing the dying wails of Purgatory’s own had never sounded better. 

Dean wished _this_ was his first visit to Purgatory. To experience all of this delicious terror and fear wafting through the air as if it were brand new . . . in this brand new _life_ he was experiencing . . . his senses would have been on overload. After he barreled through the horde of Leviathan upon his leave from the cage, Dean reconsidered: had he not been in Purgatory before, he would have nothing to which he could compare these fresh killings; he would have not been as appreciative of the satisfying gurgle from a vampire after its beheading. He wished he had his old blade he made during his last visit. The new one he snatched off of one of the Leviathan was dull. When he sliced off a vampire’s head, it took a few minutes longer than it normally would. At least it did the job.

After the second day of running into horde after horde of Purgatory’s own, Dean met the forest’s silence. It was not total silence: the leaves rustled with the wind, a nearby stream sang, and twigs snapped before stranger footsteps padded off. Whatever creatures were nearby decided not to approach him. Lucky for them, disappointing for Dean.

During his moment of clarity and aloneness, with nothing but the forest surrounding him as he walked mile after mile, he was forced to reflect: what he was now, who he had been, why he was free in both the physical and mental sense. Human was no longer what he was; what he was now was demonic. And yet. . . .

He remembered seeing his reflection in the cage. He remembered what the Leviathan had said about him being tainted. A demon was what he was now, and that meant he was surely dead, and breathing was not a necessity, yet he still exaggerated his breathing. The large inhales, the exhaled sighs after a kill. The dead don’t breathe. _Fitting,_ Dean thought. There were times that though he was alive he felt dead inside: torturing souls in Hell to get himself off the rack. Feeling like he left Castiel to die here in Purgatory. Hating Cas. Losing Cas. Watching Sammy die. Forcing Sam to stay in the hunter’s life when he wanted out. Shaming him. Being brought back to life when Dean knew he did not deserve it. That was his _life_ – death, destruction, self-loathing, mistake after mistake. He had nearly drove himself mad with the guilt of _liking_ the killing. Torturing souls left a mark on him that never washed out.

A twist of his insides, a pull, _squish. Crackle._ Dean let out a howling cry of agony. His legs gave out beneath him and he went face first into the dirt. It smelled earthy, but it was also mixed with a metallic rust and burned rubber. The earth in Purgatory did not smell entirely earthy, and it made Dean want to vomit. His insides were churning and bubbling. Boiling. He had to breathe out of his mouth, but dust flew in and he coughed. It tasted coppery. Earth and copper. His chest cavity felt as though a hand had reached inside and began twisting. Was that blood he tasted? What were his insides _doing?_

_You’re thinking too much, stupid,_ he told himself. _Don’t harp on who you were. Remember the cage._

The cage, however horrible it was, taught him something: the more he cared (about the souls, about Cas, about Sammy), the more he loved, the more the guilt crushed him, the more it held him back. He _liked_ the clean slice of a blade against a vampire’s neck. He _liked_ the sizzle of silver against a monster’s skin. If he did not like any of those, how else would he have stomached twenty something years of killing monsters? How else did he survive Purgatory without driving himself insane? Still, Purgatory’s monsters were _nothing_ compared to the human souls he tore up in Hell. Thirty years of torturing in Hell . . . he learned a thing or two, and now . . . without a pure soul to tell him stop at monsters, without a pure soul to tell him that he was enjoying killing too much for his own good, then _why stop?_

Why stop? Why stop at monsters? _Because you have a soul._ Dean retched up whatever was in his stomach – which was nothing but stomach acid, and his throat burned. His tongue tingled. _Why stop? You may have a soul, but it ain’t the same._ A dry heave. Another crackling from within. Was it his bones breaking? His veins twisting? _Why stop? Because it’s not who you are._ Dean was mentally at war: guilt versus his lack of it. Dean has had this struggle before, but it never was soul-deep. His body was rejecting the change. His very core was churning like magma in a volcano, and it was beginning to erupt. _Why stop? It’s not who you were, but now?_ The lava was coming up. The pressure was building up in his chest with his pounding heart, his hyperventilation, the sweat dripping down his brow. _Now you’re_ free. _Nothing’s holding you back._ He tried to stand up, walk off the pain attacking his muscles. The world was spinning. So why stop? Why did he stop the killing? That was a distraction from the _fucking existential crisis in my head_ , Dean growled. _Stop._

_Stop fighting it, Dean, _he told himself._ Stop fighting the demons and start fighting your humanity._

That was what felt so freeing now. The cage gave him that freedom. It may have trapped him in there because of love, but it burned any inkling of it out of him. To err was human, to love was human. To say _fuck it_ and _stick it where the sun don’t shine, asshole_ . . . that was Dean being Dean without the years of self-hatred. Why the cage set him free had been an unasked question, but Dean found the answer after he wiped the excess vomit off the corners of his lips and stood up: the cage set him free so he could _be free._ Was he Legion now? Who knew. There was no way he was going to start fucking his beautiful face up like the other Legion demons. He felt sane – albeit a bit sore from the twisting of his insides – and that was good enough for him. Then again, he was pretty fucked up as a human. _Maybe all I needed was a little push over the edge,_ Dean thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I made an oops and mixed chapters up, so you guys get THREE new chapters today! :D 
> 
> *sweats nervously as I try to fix my mess*
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> *continues to sweat as I rearrange chapters*


	5. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How am I to _absolve myself_ ,” Castiel spat, “of my humanly disgrace if I am graceless? How am I to redeem myself, smite every last stinking Legion, when I am cast from Heaven?”

“What you ought to be deciding,” Castiel said with a low voice and a fire kindling beneath his ribs, “is how you will stop the murder” – the fire burst from his ribs and consumed him, escaping from his mouth and making him shout – “of humans down on earth!”

Zadkiel’s three impressive copper wings tipped in mud brown shimmered as they fanned out. They spread wide in a display of dominance. Castiel, though he had only one pair of wings, though he was a lowly seraph in the presence of an archangel, did not submit to the display. He was once a commander of all the angel garrisons, the leader to a revolution, and a ruler of heaven (though mistaken in his intentions). He would not be swayed by the instinctual puffing of feathers and spreading of wings. He was an angel, and he was _wrathful_.

“Castiel,” Zadkiel warned, but Castiel ignored.

“We are _angels_ , or have you forgotten while you were wandering the desert with nothing but sand and sun and silence from our Father?” The lights exploded, the ground rumbled beneath their feet. “Angels were charged with protecting God’s creations; we were not created to stand by and watch while the humans are _slaughtered_ by the abominations created by our jealous, malicious, genocidal brother!” The wall cracked, allowing a sliver of sunlight to peak in. “What I have been doing is trying to stop an army of Legion from creating carnage on earth _by myself_ while Heaven stands by and does nothing. If anyone ought to be deciding my status as an angel, it is neither you nor heaven, it is _me._ ”

There were two sources of light in the room: the first was casted by Castiel as his celestial magic grew in intensity, a blue light that surrounded him and numbed his hands and feet. The other light was from Zadkiel, pale yellow, shimmering off his wings, sparkling and pure. The rumbling ceased, and there were no more lights to explode. The wall was no longer crumbling, and dust from the debris drowned out what little sunlight was leaking into the room. Castiel panted and tried to reign in his wrathful angelic powers while Zadkiel simply watched with unwavering, unblinking eyes. He neither looked angry nor scared. Castiel could no longer tell if his outburst was indicative of his refusal to be controlled and his demand to be heard, or if it was revealing that he was unruly, emotional, and rebellious. Looking at Zadkiel, it could have been the latter, or both, or neither.

Silence. Castiel always understood silence as the absence of his Father’s voice, the absence of Gabriel’s laughter after he left Heaven, Dean’s voice no longer calling out to him in prayer. With the silence that hung in the room, heavy and thick, Castiel understood that what he once considered silence was all noise. In the absence of God’s voice, he heard commands, demands, and orders from Heaven and his celestial siblings. When Gabriel’s voice and laughter and free nature left Heaven, the sound of his horn echoed through Heaven, and the desperate search for him resonated through all the angels. Dean’s voice never actually left, it only amplified; his last prayers were like a gong in Castiel’s ears. Noise. Not silence. The silence that fell between Zadkiel and Castiel as they measured each other . . . it was pure silence. Castiel’s mind was quiet – no thoughts of Dean or rebellion or screams of the humans he could not save. When Castiel’s breathing became even, it hardly made a sound, and he did not think Zadkiel was even breathing.

It was dangerous. Uncertain. Unpredictable. Castiel hated the silence; he had always been surrounded by noise, even when he thought it was quiet.

Zadkiel walked forward with slow, even steps. He pushed a chair out of the way. The way it scraped against the carpet was too loud for the silence, and it made Castiel’s wing twitch in surprise, though he fought hard to keep his demanding composure. _I demand to be heard. I demand to have his attention. I demand help in protecting the humans_ , Castiel thought, reminding himself why he needed to stand his ground. His very angelic nature wanted to prostrate himself before this stranger archangel and proclaim his worthlessness. With every step Zadkiel took, Castiel’s grace shrunk back even further, pulling him to the ground. But Castiel was strong, and he stood his ground.

The archangel stopped when he was mere centimeters from Castiel. He could feel Zadkiel’s angelic heat radiating off of his body, and he could hear the shuffle of the fabric as Zadkiel rolled his shoulders. His hands were folded behind his back, and he looked down at Castiel from his nose. Castiel refused to dip his head. He met Zadkiel’s eyes and he did not waver. Though his intimidating display was working, Castiel could not show that it was. _I demand to be heard. I demand to have his attention. I demand help in protecting the humans. We are angels, created to protect God’s creation, and the only one who is currently doing it is_ me. _I should be deciding_ your _fate_.

“So,” Castiel began, but his voice cracked, giving him away. He cleared his throat. “What are we to do? Are you going to agree to help me, or am I going to walk out of here and continue my hunt for Legion?”

Zadkiel grinned. “You have forgotten your place, my young brother.”

“I don’t believe I have.”

Then Zadkiel did something that chilled Castiel to his bones: he laughed. Mid laugh, Zadkiel shot his hand to Castiel’s throat, and he lifted Castiel up off the ground. His feet did not touch the ground, and his hands flew to his throat. His fingers clawed at Zadkiel’s rough, calloused hands, struggling for breath. His lungs burned. The sounds he was making, combined with Zadkiel’s throaty laugh, made Castiel’s ears ring. 

“Listen to me, Castiel,” Zadkiel chuckled, and he threw Castiel down against the table. It did not crack, but Castiel felt as though his bones did. “There’s a reason why the humans keep getting slaughtered despite your best efforts; there is a reason why they keep dying in front of you.” Zadkiel’s voice was calm, cool, and silky. Castiel was reminded of Lucifer: he never sounded angry, nor did he ever sound spiteful. He sounded like he already won. 

“They are dying because,” Zadkiel said, no longer laughing, “you have failed as an angel.” Castiel stopped struggling against Zadkiel’s hold. To hear Castiel’s fear out loud . . . it floored him. He hardly admitted that to himself; he told himself that it was Heaven’s fault that the humans kept dying at his feet. Castiel never wanted to admit that he was worried _he himself_ was failing. “You have proven time and time again to be _undeserving_ of Heaven’s help, not only with your past actions of slaughtering angels in your own blasphemous title of God. You failed to contain the Legion.” His grip on Castiel’s throat became tighter. “You have failed to destroy them.”

“I – I was -” Castiel choked. He had to explain himself. Zadkiel let go of Castiel’s throat and grasped his hair, pulling it back to bare his throat and to still maintain control. Castiel gasped and wheezed, coughing so violently he felt his throat shredding. “I was trapped – I was caged in the archangel trap, and I had to recover. I was” – Castiel coughed, and Zadkiel rolled his eyes – “I was in mourning.”

“I know you were trapped in the cage, Castiel,” Zadkiel sighed. Bored. “Do you think me unobserving? Ignorant? Forgetful? Shall I retell the tail of my _brother_ that suffered the cage more so than you?”

Castiel’s curiosity blazed in his chest, and he stopped struggling a moment to listen. He knew only a retelling of a retelling of the archangel that was trapped in the cage because of his human lover. After the days that the Messiah walked the earth and returned to Heaven. The archangels, some Castiel hardly remembered because he was but a newborn fledgling, were going to earth more often, possessing the disciples. The Legion’s leader had a loyalty to Lucifer (or so they said, but no one knew for certain) that drove him to create the trap, and one unnamed archangel suffered for loving a human. The human, however, saved the archangel, and the archangel was later killed by the Legion’s leader. Castiel found the story to be too relatable, but it was also achingly sad; his siblings thought it to be a warning, and they believed it to be disgustingly impious.

“Sariel,” Zadkiel breathed, and his tight pull on Castiel’s hair lessened. “His name was Sariel, and the fool, during his time on earth, fell in love with a human. Her name was Dalya.” Zadkiel grunted, let go of Castiel’s hair, and backed away. He turned his back to Castiel, and his shimmering wings drooped. As Castiel slowly stood, Zadkiel faced Castiel once again, though he did not meet his eyes. He looked down at the table. Lost in a memory. “Sariel became vulnerable when he fell in love with Dalya, and soon after their” – Zadkiel’s faced scrunched up, and he spat the word – “abomination was born was when Barak attacked. Barak was not only the Legion’s leader, he was their creator.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and his heart dropped to the floor. The demon possessing Logan – that was his true name. Barak: blessed, made to kneel, to cower. His name told a story that fit him well, although it was not _he_ who was made to kneel – it was the command given to his cursed creations.

“Barak learned of Sariel’s Nephilim child, and he wanted it. When Dalya’s sister took the child into hiding, Barak saw it as a challenge, and thus he created the archangel cage, specifically designed for angels and their human lovers. It was a very specific ritual, and the specifics were just so because they mocked Sariel and Dalya.” Zadkiel paused and grabbed the edge of the nearest chair. He closed his eyes, took deep breaths in and out of his nose. His nostrils flared. Castiel has hardly seen an archangel so moved – the only other archangel to show anything but mechanical motions was Gabriel. It was a rare sight. Castiel soaked it up, and he felt a stirring in his gut. He, too, was moved.

“Dalya, like Dean Winchester, was close to death after Sariel was trapped within the cage,” Zadkiel said. He opened his eyes, and for the first time since he began his story, he looked at Castiel. “Her sister, Liora, watched as Barak stabbed Dalya, and Liora was killed for what she saw. Dalya, as she bled out for the final ritual of the cage, was forced to watch as Sariel was locked in the cage. You know what that is like, I presume.”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. The look Zadkiel gave Castiel was unknown. Before Castiel could linger on it for too long, however, Zadkiel looked down again.

“Barak then made Dalya a deal, and she did not hesitate in taking it. The deal was: Sariel can be freed if Dalya takes his place within the cage, and all she had to do was take the ashes of the feather, smear it upon her lover’s lips, and kiss him. Then she was to say, _Ohl mahl-pi-reh-gah nee-ees ah-me-rawn_ , my life for yours.” Castiel, in a distant memory, heard Dean’s voice saying those very words in his head. His eyes began to sting, and he pinched his sinuses to staunch the pain. “When Sariel was free, he was weak, as you may well know. When he saw the state of his lover, he was enraged, but Barak simply laughed as he doused the angel in holy oil and set him eblaze.”

Zadkiel looked at Castiel, measuring his response. Castiel was too lost in his own memory of what happened when he was freed from the cage. Had Barak not been killed, would Sariel’s fate been Castiel’s? Dean’s sacrifice would have been for naught, and Sam would be left alone to grieve not only a brother, but a friend – _and perhaps he would have hated me_ , Castiel thought, _because Dean would have sacrificed himself for a dead, useless angel._

Zadkiel broke the silence: “Sariel, had he lived after being freed, would have smote every last Legion.” He grabbed Castiel’s hair and bared his neck once more. Something cold touched Castiel’s throat, and when he looked down, he saw that it was an archangel blade. He stopped struggling. One hard jerk, and Castiel would risk having his throat slit. “He would grieve, yes, but he would then absolve his human-like mistakes by smiting the Legion. Had he not abandoned his angelic nature and loved, then he would never have been the catalyst of Barak’s angelic trap.” Zadkiel brought the blade up to Castiel’s face, and he stroked down from the corner of Castiel’s eye to his chin as he spoke: “Had you not followed in his footsteps – had you not betrayed Heaven and your siblings for _human nature_ and Dean Winchester, we would not have Legion demons roaming the earth once more.” The blade hovered over Castiel’s throat once again, just beneath the chin, where his grace was housed. “You are fortunate I have mercy in me enough not to strip you of your grace right now, Castiel.”

“How am I to _absolve myself_ ,” Castiel spat, “of my humanly disgrace if I am graceless? How am I to redeem myself, smite every last stinking Legion, when I am cast from Heaven?”

“You’re a seraph,” Zadkiel answered. He withdrew the blade. “You will find a way.” He let go of Castiel and turned towards the door. “Raphael, I have a request of you!” he shouted. Seconds later, the archangel Raphael arrived with a grin on his face and his pale yellow wings spread out wide. “Would you do the honors of casting Castiel from Heaven?”

A pure blue light shot out from Castiel immediately, and his wings spread out to their full length. His fingertips were numb, and his palms felt hot. He would not allow Raphael to cast him from Heaven without a fight, even if it was a fight he knew he already lost. Raphael shot forward with a flap of his three wings, and Castiel shot a hand out to land a punch, but Raphael dodged. That was when Castiel landed an uppercut to the archangel’s stomach, and as the archangel reeled, he grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s coat. As Castiel struggled to free himself of Raphael’s grasp, they teleported, but it was unknown to Castiel if they were being transported to where he wanted to go, or if it was to where Raphael wanted to go. 

It was the latter.

Once Castiel’s feet touched the ground before the Gates of Heaven, he grabbed hold of Raphael’s throat, and he allowed his angelic magic to seep out. Raphael’s skin began to sizzle, and his groan became progressively louder. He slapped Castiel across the face, and though it stung, it was not as bad as it could have been. _Why is he holding back?_ Castiel asked, and he grunted as he tackled Raphael to the ground.

“Come _on_ ,” Castiel growled. He pinned Raphael’s arms down with his knees, and he punched Raphael across the face. “Fight me, damn you!” He landed another punch. 

“If you wish,” Raphael said, and he spit a glob of blood at Castiel’s face. As he wiped away the spittle, Raphael grabbed Castiel’s coat once more, and he ordered the Gates to open. But he did not throw Castiel out the gates just yet. A jolt ran through Castiel, and it burned. It increased in intensity, and soon enough it became unbearable. All Castiel could do was scream. His insides began to twist and churn, and he felt bile rising in his throat. It tasted acidic, coppery. His flesh crawled and burned and sizzled. Why did he demand Raphael to fight back? He thought he would retain some of his dignity if he put up a fight, but what little fight he gave was pathetic. He deserved this.

The next thing Castiel knew, he was falling to earth. He landed in a broken heap somewhere in Colorado, and his muscles ached, his insides felt gelatinous, and worst of all, he could not feel his wings. The joints where they connected to his back burned too much, and everything else around it felt numb. He began to panic and looked behind him to make sure they were still there. His neck hurt too much to turn it around that far. He needed help. _You’re weak, Castiel_ , he told himself, and his inner voice sounded insulting. _Pull out your cellular phone, you pathetic excuse for an angel, and call for help, because you’re too weak to help even yourself._

With a heavy heart, Castiel painfully reached for his pocket, and he called Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, know it's been a bit. But I'm gonna do two things: post this chapter, and then the next! :D I feel like I owe ya. Plus, I've officially finished this fic, so get ready for about 31 chapters (I don't know for sure I'm too lazy to look, don't judge me) posted over the course of the summer and beyond! 
> 
> No music for this chapter. I tried to find something that fit but couldn't find anything. *shrug*
> 
> Thanks again for reading, lovelies. I'll save more sappiness for the next chapter ha ha. :) Leave comments -- I'd love to hear from you lovelies! <3


	6. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castile’s head fell onto his pillow in a stifled _thunk_. His eyebrows made a very distinctive V before they changed their mind and furrowed instead, and he closed his eyes. “I may as well be human. Not an angel. I can’t even heal myself.”

Sam drove all night. Besides slowing down when he suspected a cop to be lurking behind corners, billboards, or dark alleys, he ignored the speeding laws. When he arrived at the hospital, he forced himself to take a deep breath. Amidst the worry for the angel, there was a toxic mix of bitterness and tension coiling his neck and shoulder muscles like springs that refused to uncoil. Sam walked through the hospital’s front doors with a roll of his neck. The tense interaction with Sheila and the panic in trying to reach Castiel left him aching and, frankly, all the more pissy; however, there were no shoving aside of nurses, no flashing of his fake badge, and no stolen elevators from citizens in this hospital visit. His head was clear, and his mind was more or less focused on Castiel, not Sheila. He rubbed at his shoulders, wincing at the throbbing that migrated from shoulder to shoulder, and found Castiel’s room. The angel and a nurse were smiling at one another, exchanging hushed conversations as she checked him over. They paid him no mind, so he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, allowing the check-up to continue uninterrupted.

Sam took a deep breath, forcing the bitterness rising in his throat down into his bowels. It would not surface, not now. Sam had driven all the way here arguing with himself; he imagined conversations he would have with Castiel once they reunited: while one half of him wanted to pick a fight, the other half of him scolded him for _wanting_ to pick a fight with the injured angel. _If you had stopped ignoring me and actually talked to me, none of this would have happened,_ the bitter part of him said; the other argued, _Sam, he’s_ hurt – _he just literally got kicked out of Heaven. You really wanna rip him a new one?_ A dull, throbbing pain was growing at his forehead. Sam was sure that the hostile side of him was going to win out the moment he saw Castiel; however, with the underlying relief of seeing the angel mostly whole, Sam knew he just did not have it in him to give the angel more hell than he was already dealt. 

Castiel had his arm wrapped in a cast, and farther up his neck and shoulders were wrapped in bandages as well. Upon his forehead was a long gash stitched and bandaged, and he had a black eye that was in the last stages of healing, a dark purplish yellow covering from his eyebrow to the heavy bags beneath his tired eyes. God knew what other injuries were hidden beneath the angel’s hospital gown. Sam glanced at the nurse as she smiled at Castiel, and he thought, _At least someone’s taking care of him,_ because it sure as hell wasn’t Sam. The urge to punch himself was hard to ignore.

Any resentment that was left in Sam completely melted away when Castiel took notice of Sam’s presence and gave an injured but genuine smile. Sam gave a small wave with an awkward grin at his lips. When the nurse looked over to see who Castiel was smiling at, the angel answered, “He’s a good friend of mine.” Sam felt the need to punch a wall and eat a messy plate of ribs while watching cage fighting to cover up the mushy feeling gurgling in his heart; on the outside, Sam let out a sigh and gave a slight nod as the nurse came over to him. She gave him the overview of Castiel’s injuries: the broken wrist he could see, along with the gash at Castiel's forehead and the black eye, but what Sam couldn’t see were the severe burns on his friend's neck and shoulders and the scars left over by the thoracotomy surgery (which is what took care of the internal bleeding Castiel suffered). The nurse mentioned her baffled relief that Castiel was healing so quickly, but he still had quite some healing to go. She left with a warning that Castiel would be drowsy and loopy once the pain killers took effect in due time. _Man, if he has to be on painkillers, his boot from Heaven was really bad,_ Sam thought.

Sam shut the door behind the nurse. Before he could ask Castiel how he was holding up, the angel asked, “Are you okay?”

“Uh,” Sam gaped. He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about me, Cas. You’re the one in the hospital bed.”

“In which I may be for a while,” Castiel replied. “I won’t be much help to you.”

Sam waved a dismissive hand, pulled a chair up to the bed, and sat on it backwards. “Don’t worry about it.” He wrapped his arms around the back of the chair. “It isn’t like I was going to be doing much lately, what with Sheila playing hard to get.”

Before Sam could finish, Castiel muttered, “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “You don’t have to be.”

“I think I do.” Castiel looked down at his lap and ran a hand against his casted arm. “If I had stopped my self-pitying and stopped being selfish, you wouldn’t have had to do the hunting on your own. I know I can be . . . a burden, and I know what happened to Dean was my fault. I can accept that. But I shouldn’t have left you alone to find him. I was a coward. Look what it cost me.” He waved a hand across his body. “I’m a fool, Sam. But I _will_ make it up to you.”

Castiel had a look upon his face that Sam had seen in the mirror so many times. After Dean went to Hell, it was all Sam could see whenever he passed a reflective surface: it was the look of a guilty man, one who blamed himself for the death of another. Sam blamed himself for being stupid enough to die, and he blamed Dean for loving his brother too much to let him stay dead. Sam blamed Dean for having Sam on a high pedestal, and Sam blamed John Winchester for putting Sam up there. God, he hated his father for making Dean believe Sam was worth far more than Dean’s life, and he hated that Dean bought it. He hated Dean for believing that he was worth nothing more than a sacrifice for the ones he loved.

“Stop, Cas,” Sam growled. He cleared his throat. “Just . . . stop.” Inhale. Exhale. “I don’t – I never _have_ blamed you for what Dean did. Got it? I blame me, I blame Sheila, I blame Dean – hell, I even blame our long-dead _dad_ , that son of a bitch. But you? I don’t blame you at all. That should not be put on your shoulders. I know what that’s like. Dean has a habit of dying so that I can live, and now you’re under that self-sacrificial umbrella he’s built. That’s on _him_. Not on you.”

Castiel gave a small smile. His eyes were glassy and distant, and for a second Sam thought the angel was going to cry until he remembered that the nurse mentioned the high dosage of pain killers. Sam chuckled: the chance to see a doped out angel was one in a million. He was half-tempted to pull out his phone and make some videos.

Sam sighed and stretched. “Well, when you’re up to it, Cas, we’ll start the search for Sheila again.” He stood up and made his way towards the door, but he almost tripped over himself when Castiel drowsily said, “Her name is Liora.”

“How do you know that?” Sam asked immediately. To know more of Sheila’s past meant having more leverage over her, and more predictability to her movements. Sam had an itch to know more about her. “What else do you know, Cas?”

Castiel blinked slowly. “Her sister’s name was Dalya, and Barak used her like he used Dean to trap the archangel Sauriel.” Though he was looking at Sam, his eyes were distant, thinking through the fog of drugs. “Zadkiel – _pretentious_ – the _pretentious, self-righteous_ archangel –”

“Most of the ones I met were, yeah,” Sam chuckled. He could tell when Castiel actually looked at him, and the angel rolled his eyes. Sam was sensing that the high-off-drugs Castiel was going to be the same as the drunk-off-an-entire-liquor-store Castiel, only a little more dazed and still incredibly grumpy. If only Dean were there to witness it. 

“Zadkiel, while prolonging my obviously already decided sentence,” Castiel continued, and his eyes once again hinted at his recollection from elsewhere, “lamented about Sariel’s demise. Barak wanted Dalya’s --"

"Barak?" Sam asked. "As in, like, _Obama_ , the President, Barak?"

"No, Barak meaning the demon possessing Logan." Sam shrugged, and Castiel rolled his eyes and continued: "Barak wanted Dalya's and Sariel’s nephilim child, and when they would not give up their unholy offspring, Barak was insulted, and thus created the trap with insults twisted into the ritual.”

“There were a lot of subtle ‘Fuck you’ moments within the ritual,” Sam muttered with a nod and a cocked eyebrow. “So Dalya and Sariel both die and Sheila – Laura, whatever her original name was –”

 _“Liora,”_ Cas corrected, and under his breath he muttered, _“Leh-veh-lo-vo oh-eh oh-ah-dri-ah-ex."_

“— then becomes Logan’s apprentice at this time? So would this explain – and further prove – that Sheila knows the ins and out of the cage, down to the metaphorical screws that metaphorically hold it together?”

“Yes. She watched her sister stabbed for the final steps in the ritual, then watched as she took Sariel’s place, who was only doused in holy oil and set ablaze. It was all for naught. She lost her sister and her innocent, human life and was made into the first Legion demon. She would have trapped archangels and angels alike alongside Barak.”

“And Zadkiel told you all of this before he kicked you out?” By the look on Castiel’s sleepy-eyed glare, Sam could have been a little more sensitive to what Castiel experienced mere hours ago. “Why? He had no reason to.”

“I believe it was to make a point that if Sariel had survived, he would not let grief prevent him from performing his celestial duty . . . as I have. _Bah-bah-rah-nod._ He scorned me for expression human emotions when he himself nearly wept while he told his brother’s tragic tale.” _Well_ that’s _interesting_ , Sam noted. “One would assume that at least he would show some sympathy; he, however, is a very powerful and noble archangel, and has no such capacity nor understanding of empathy.” Castiel looked around the room with a slow slump of his head. He tried to scratch at the bandage on his head, but he did not have the strength to being his hand up to it, so his arm fell back onto the bed with a _slump_. “They called him the Angel of Mercy when I was a fledgling,” he murmured under his breath. 

Sam wanted to inquire further; however, he told himself to focus on the main issue of Sheila, Dean, and the cage. “What else do you know about Sheila? Anything current that might help me better predict her movements? What she’s doing now that she killed Logan?” When Castiel gave the familiar squint and a head-tilt, Sam huffed and explained further: “The Legion you sent me – they, uh, well they don’t do jack squat to help me, to be honest. But they do this thing whenever I mention Sheila, which means they’re pretty familiar with her current identity. They go on, like, this broken record of Latin mixed with Enochian, and I may be able to speak some Latin, but I know jack all about Enochian. Maybe you could . . . ?” Castiel was staring intensely at the wall behind him with glassy, distant eyes. “Cas? Are you hearing me?” His head swayed ever so slightly and his eyes began to droop. “Cas.”

“My wings. I thought I lost them.” It seemed it was an effort to move his lips, and soon the swaying became head nods. He tried so hard to fight the drugs and stay conscious, but with the apparently heavy dosage, it was a losing battle. At least Sam got _some_ new material before Castiel became comatose. “I thought they burned like Anna’s did when she fell.”

“You’re still an angel, Cas, she wasn’t.”

Castile’s head fell onto his pillow in a stifled _thunk_. His eyebrows made a very distinctive V before they changed their mind and furrowed instead, and he closed his eyes. “I may as well be human. Not an angel. I can’t even heal myself.”

Sam did not truly grasp the severity of Castiel’s new title of Cast-Out Angel until the angel himself said it. He needed to rely on human healing procedures – doctors, surgeries, painkillers, casts, and bandages, all of which were helping the angel hold himself together after he used whatever angelic power he had left to keep him from unraveling further. The nurse said she was impressed with how fast he had healed, but Sam had seen Castiel heal much quicker before. The last time Castiel was in a hospital was when he had used himself as the canvas for an angel-banishing sygil, and even being cut off from Heaven he managed to walk out of the hospital within a couple days with barely any sign of being injured. How long will he be on the mend? How long will Sam have to wait by his bedside until they can finally restart the search for Sheila – the search for Dean? Could they rescue him if Castiel was barely an angel?

 _What if we can’t rescue Dean now?_ Sam's mind cruelly asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I don't say that enough. You guys are wonderful and lovely and brilliant. I'll be really busy during the summer but I'll at least have this fic and you, my readers, to come back to when I come home from work. :)
> 
> I admit, this chapter isn't exactly hair-raising, but it is relevant to the plot. All I ask is for patience: the next chapter is all Dean.
> 
> Feel free to leave comments. I'd love to hear some feedback. The next chapter will be posted next week. I'm gonna get posting before heading off to camp, where I work basically 24/7. After that it will be an inconsistent posting schedule (like it has been, ha ha). See you guys again soon! :)


	7. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a man. Stalky in build, broad-shouldered and solid. He wore a tattered navy pea coat with its collar turned up in the back, tweed slacks, and dirty black boots. Upon his dark blonde head lay a familiar hat, and as soon as Dean placed that hat, everything else became familiar as well. He let out a chuckle of disbelief, and the figure wheeled around with wide, familiar, wild blue eyes.
> 
> “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Dean told his surprise stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, music in the end notes :)

Hours passed. Another night of attacks, unprovoked and provoked alike. Dean did not mind the waves of vampires and werewolves, the shape shifters and wendigos, any of Purgatory’s own. He had stamina enough to last, and the brazen amusement of watching the light leave his victim’s eyes kept it interesting enough. More importantly, it kept that gnawing, literal gut twisting at bay. After a few days of a minimal waves of monster after monster, however, the whole of Purgatory became more cautious of their moves to attack the lone demon. They saw the desolation trailing behind Dean. Soon, the killings became far and few, and even with the occasional Leviathan hungry enough to face Dean, they lost. Dean was too quick, and far too eager to find pleasure in it. However, it was becoming boring rather quickly, and with that came hours of wandering alone. The only company was his thoughts. The lingering threat of another bout of searing pain. Hours of hiking passed, and the ache within his gut began to blossom into a boiling, white-hot knife twisting itself deeper. He was beginning to pant with worry. _I need to get topside_ , Dean thought desperately. The world of the living, with humans and demons and angels, held much which he desired. The world he left as human will be experienced fresh with his new demon status. It would keep the monster within him satisfied.

Dean was a man of sensuality, an animal ruled by his senses. Fixated by oral pleasures: a beer at his lips, a burger exciting his taste buds, a pair of lips to nibble, a neck to suck and bruise. At first the sight of drawn blood and a final scream of pain was orgasmic in itself in his new form; now, however, Dean was craving a wanton moan rather than a moan of the slowly dying. Though he craved to rip apart limbs and tear heads from necks and spatter blood across the pavement, he also lusted for the feel of skin grinding against his bare skin, the spreading of a partner’s legs wide for the thrust of his. Purgatory’s smells of coppery blood, metallic earth, and pungent air had lost its nostalgia. Dean longed for the smell of grease and oil staining his fingertips, and the musk of the leather seats of his Impala he called Baby; he needed a beer in one hand instead of a blade, and he needed a perky ass to grasp in the other; _God_ , he needed the wind in his hair as he sped down the highway and the sound of the bed creaking beneath him as he made sweet, sweet love to a woman.

A snapping twig derailed his train of thought, and he combed the surrounding area with a predatory eye. It was not the first time he felt the feather-soft tingling of eyes watching him. Whatever or whoever it was had the smarts to high-tail it out of sight, for Dean was growing more annoyed with every snapping twig and scurrying footstep. With an increased annoyance came increased bloodlust. When he found this stalker, they would be dead, _and that’s a promise_ , Dean vowed.

In surveying his surroundings, Dean found that he had not been wandering as aimlessly as he previously thought. Things were becoming increasingly familiar; he had subconsciously followed the stream towards a significant landmark. He stopped to really listen: the stream was beginning to speed up into the river. The waterfall must not be much more than ten miles upriver. Once he reached the landmark, the human portal he used to ride out of Purgatory with Benny and Castiel would not be far off.

It was as if a sledgehammer rammed against his skull, and the sudden onset of agony sent him to his knee. The memory of a dirty, scruffy Castiel, with his furrowed brow and damn concentrated squint, brought the white-hot knife back with a vengeance. It took its time digging its way into his guts, thrusting left and right, stirring his intestines like a soup. The pounding in his head spread to his eyes, his neck, cramping his muscles. _If I don’t get outta here soon,_ he thought with a labored pant, _I don’t how much longer I can stand this._ The human portal was his best and only chance of getting out of Purgatory. Yet, it was another day’s hike and a half, possibly more, if he kept thinking about the damn angel. If only I could teleport –

The pain ceased, and he stood up straight. _Oh,_ he thought. A chuckle escaped his lips. What felt like dust in his eyes made him want to blink, and when he did, he felt a _click_ and he realized what happened. His eyes were black, further reminding him of the new powers bestowed upon him. He blinked again, and he felt a film recede over his eyes. They must have been green again. With an idea of how to control it, he blinked again, and was satisfied with the light _click_ and the feeling of a film covering his eyes, like contact lenses. It was all mental work, so teleporting ought not to be so different. A day and a half of walking could turn into a mere blink of his demon eyes.

Dean inhaled deeply. Shoulders back. Chin up. Exhale. He closed his eyes and thought _really hard_ about the waterfall: the rumbling, crisp water, and the roar of the falls; the awe-inspiring height, the vertigo inducing drop, and the scruff of his boots on the climb up if he dared. To see the view again. . . . Dean decided to try teleporting to the top of the falls. _“C’mon,”_ he growled through his teeth. He was growing impatient. The ghost of the waterfall’s mist brushed his face and neck. If he just thought hard enough, he would be there.

For a moment, the ground was no longer beneath his feet, and he felt light. Suspended in air. When he opened his eyes, he saw a break in the trees to the rushing river. In the next moment, he saw nothing but the thicket, with the stream whispering through the trees. The vertigo attacked without mercy: its claws gripped stronger than steel around his abdomen, punched him so hard he was seeing stars instead of the canopy above. He fell to his hands and knees in the underbrush, and he dry-heaved so violently he could feel his stomach lurch from within. When he tried to look around, the world became a merry-go-round of shades of brown and gray and olive green. He squeezed his eyes shut. Again, his stomach tried to empty its contents, but there was nothing to expel.

The nausea and dizziness soon gave up, leaving him light headed. Dean dared to open his eyes again, and when he did, all he felt was a throbbing over his whole body. He huffed as he stood and surveyed his surroundings. The stream had melted into a river that was barely beginning to pick up speed. He looked down the stream and realized his original spot was maybe twenty feet behind him. His pained panting turned into proud laughter. It may have sucked ass, but he fucking teleported. Dean decided that if he was prepared to spend hours walking anyway, he may as well use those wasted hours for something far more important. 

So for the next few hours, that was exactly what Dean did: he practiced. Not every attempt was successful. At times, he was able to teleport up to forty feet ahead of his starting point, and between the dry-heaving were whoops of victory. Other times, Dean found himself anywhere from ten to fifteen feet behind his starting point, and he kicked at a pile of leaves in frustration. Two steps forward, one step back. The vertigo was sporadic in its attack pattern: it did not matter which direction he went, nor how far he traveled, for the dizzying nausea came nonetheless. He stopped when he saw the bottom of the waterfall within his line of sight. It had to be a half-hour walk, forty minutes at most. Dean would focus on the bottom of the falls first before trying for the top.

Before Dean even opened his eyes, he moaned, “Oh _Hell_ yes,” and laughed. The roar of the falls pounding against the river was like the long-awaited climax to a rising symphony. He opened his eyes, and before him was the curtain of cascading water. He was giddier than a schoolgirl seeing the perfect dress for her first prom, and he pumped his fist into the air with a triumphant laugh. Though he felt his stomach churn with every movement, the vertigo was dormant. He had successfully teleported. Dean looked up at the top of the falls and closed his eyes, and after a second of free-falling, gravel crunched beneath his boots. In a blink, he had teleported to the top of the falls. Hours of practice and he did it. The acrid taste of stomach acid lingering in his mouth from all his other attempts was nothing. The reward of the singing falls and breathtaking view of Purgatory’s forest were hefty rewards that outweighed any nasty aftertaste of the nausea. The urge to shout at the top of his lungs was too strong to ignore, and he released. His shameless laugh echoed through the trees, following the victory call.

Dean climbed down the falls rather than teleporting down. The rush of adrenaline from succeeding needed to be spent on the rush of climbing down, following the water as it crashed to the earth. The spray coming off the falls was cool, cleansing. He decided once he reached the bottom he would reward himself with a bath to wash off the gore from his killing sprees. He knew he would not stay clean – one is never free of gore in Purgatory – but it would be nice to feel clean for a few blissful moments.

The second his feet touched the ground, crunching dead leaves in the underbrush caught Dean’s attention. A twig snapped. Fleeing footsteps slid through the debris underfoot. Dust irritated his eye, and he instinctively blinked. A purposeful cocky grin pulled at his lips when he heard the click of his eyes changing into bottomless black pits. He looked towards the edge of the trees, the border between thicket and riverside, for any signs of life. This monster – my next victim, Dean joked – was clearly determined to not only stalk, but prey upon Dean; this monster thought itself a stealthy predatory, and it wanted to study its prey before it pounced. Whatever the intent of this being, Dean would relish in drawing its blood, for he, too, was a predator, and a damn fine hunter. He was anything but prey. 

The slightest ruffling of the branches on a nearby bush, some thirty plus feet away, was the mock-hunter’s downfall. The dead leaves in the underbrush still floated in their decent after their disturbance. This monster was fast. Dean chuckled. _I’m faster_ , he thought. With a blink, the ground left his feet, and when he touched the ground again, he resisted the urge to high-five himself. The element of surprise became his ally as the stalker’s back faced him.

It was a man. Stalky in build, broad-shouldered and solid. He wore a tattered navy pea coat with its collar turned up in the back, tweed slacks, and dirty black boots. Upon his dark blonde head lay a familiar hat, and as soon as Dean placed that hat, everything else became familiar as well. He let out a chuckle of disbelief, and the figure wheeled around with wide, familiar, wild blue eyes.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Dean told his surprise stalker.

“I could say the same to you, brother,” said the vampire with his gruff twang. He cleared his throat. “You’re lookin’ good.”

Dean laughed again. A flicker of worry marred the other vampire’s face. “You, too, all things considered.” 

Benny smiled in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dean's Dirty Organ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbmYdQNO2wk)  
>  \- Supernatural Original Soundtrack (When Dean's practicing his new powers)


	8. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the few minutes of observing Sam’s decent into desperation, he had found no articles, no videos, no pictures, nothing that snapped him out of his state to have Castiel identify Sheila. With the state Sam was in, Castiel was beginning to worry.

Four days after Sam arrived at the hospital, Castiel was barely well enough to leave. Four days had passed, and though it hardly hurt to breathe, Castiel still needed the aid of human medicine. The painkillers left his head feeling like a cotton field and his tongue feeling fat, but now that the painkillers were fading, his thoughts waded through a fog rather than the thick cotton, and he could converse without slurring. He would take that rather than feeling like a rung out towel from the constant healing he attempted over the four day hospital stay. He felt utterly useless during the arduous healing process (the painkillers did not help with the concentration), so he devoted all his time to forcing his withering grace to squeeze out what little power it had left to heal him enough to get out of the hospital, and it left him exhausted. Though he was in no shape to fight, he could still sit at a desk and conduct research. He refused to be useless any longer.

Upon entering the hotel room, Castiel was hit with a bout of nostalgia: the dank smell of a very used room mixed in with the smell of dust and air fresheners. Beer bottles clanked against one another as Sam placed them one by one in the hotel’s grimy mini fridge. Their familiar chime as they banged against each other sent Castiel back to a simplistic memory that served no purpose other than to make Castiel ache for what was: after his usual arrival announcement of, “Hello, Dean,” and after Dean cursed, _Dammit_ , Cas,” Dean would grab two beers from the mini fridge and hand one to Castiel, despite knowing full-well that the angel never drank it. Dean would clank the tip of his beer against Castiel’s unopened one and take a swig before asking the reason for Castiel’s visit. Everything about this hotel room – from the tacky wallpaper to the carpet with the questionable sanitation – said familiar. Sam making himself at home at the desk with his laptop before him was a recognizable scene, but all it was missing was Dean chomping away at fast food or rolling his eyes at the mention of research. 

Castiel’s chest grew tighter, and his eyes stung. He pushed it down with the rest of his longing and inhaled deeply before sitting on the rickety chair beside the desk stained with rings of coffee cups. The time for mourning was over. Now was the time for _doing_.

An annoying ache made its home between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose, and as he rubbed at the spot, Sam eagerly spoke of Sheila this, Sheila that, where he thought she’d be next based on where she had been. His fingers thrummed rapidly against the well-worn keys of his laptop as he pulled up varying websites and said, “So I thought first we could search for her before we do anything else, ‘cause there are a few places that look promising. After we search for her I thought we’d translate . . .” Castiel yawned at the same moment Sam finally looked away from the laptop’s screen, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Or we could, ya know, wait a little, since you’re –”

“No, no,” Castiel interrupted, and Sam raised an eyebrow. Castiel sighed. He could feel a pulsating ache taking form at the back of his head; being so near human, his body succumbed more readily to aches and pains, and he craved the down of a pillow and the enveloping comfort of a mattress. As long as he was able, and as long as his grace was working enough, Castiel wanted to fight off the human urges as much as he could.

“I’m ready to find her,” Castiel added. “I grow tired of lying around.”

“Okay, good,” Sam chuckled. “I do, too. We’ll find her together.” He gave Castiel a small grin before his fingers resumed their dance across the keyboard. “I’ve got a couple places that could almost positively be where she is. Maybe.”

Sam pulled up a video after he asked Castiel if he could identify her, and as Sam searched, Castiel took a moment to think back to his time in the cage: in his mind’s eye he saw a howling blizzard blocking most of his memory. If he had to describe the cage, it would, in fact, be a blizzard, for lack of a better description, as it was hard to describe the intense and torturous cold. The most vivid parts of his memories were being at the heart of the blizzard, where it was dark, cold, and where his wings froze into icicles; at the heart of the storm that was the cage was where the torture started, and it was there his own heart became a shard of ice. He remembered bits of Dean when the strength of the cage wavered enough to allow the angel sight outside his personal limbo. Dean stood chained and broken and begging for mercy on his angel. Castiel remembered when Barak allowed him a moment’s peace from the cage to gaze upon a bleeding and dying Dean after he was stabbed.

The once dull, pulsing ache became a throbbing wail of a headache, and Castiel rubbed at the base of his neck with his good arm. He tried to play off his obvious distress as the oncoming migraine, but his eyes still stung, and he still felt as though he were drowning. He could not fool himself.

_Focus, you heartsick fool,_ he chastised.

He returned to the memory, only this time he focused on Sam, not his brother. The blizzard roared as Castiel sifted through the memory in search of Liora. He found a shadow of her possessing Sam: she was a sheer veil cast over his face, a mist around his soul. As Castiel recalled, she was holding back and relinquishing control to Sam, whispering treason against Barak and his plan to trap Castiel. Her half-possession only made it harder to see her true face, but what he could make out was not entirely horrible. Pearls for eyes, skin like a dying ember, and a gnarled pair of lips.

The video Sam recently found her in featured her as a male doctor alongside a child with whom she made a deal. Castiel raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in curiosity. _As far as demons go_ , he thought, _she isn’t that vile to look at._ Her round, almond-shaped eyes still glimmered like pearls, and her skin still resembled the glow of a fading ember. Her mouth was once sewn shut, and her lips bared scars and the broken stitches from her breaking free of them. Fanged teeth and a glossy tongue danced behind her lips. She had an ethereal near-beauty that fit her talent. Castiel hardly blamed Sam for being seduced by her bargain and being unsuspecting of her withheld information.

Castiel confirmed that he could identify her, and thus the grueling search commenced. The first video Sam pulled up was immediately refuted, as was the next one. Sam, however, was stubborn, and accused Castiel of not looking hard enough, but it was an empty accusation. The following videos and pictures were also refuted, and soon an hour of searching rolled into another. Castiel’s craving for the bed became too hard to ignore. He had to stand and splash some cold water on his face. It allowed him another hour of wakefulness, but it was wasted, for the next three videos and pictures Sam had suspected of being her was more false hope. Sam had to comb through more news articles, looking at anything that looked like a sudden success story or a miracle in the surrounding states. 

The only sound in the room was the clacking of the laptop’s keyboard, Sam’s groans of disappointment, and Castiel’s deep, heavy breathing. The new evening sun cast a soothing orange-pink hue upon the room. Castiel closed his eyes for a moment of rest, and sighed deeply.

_Clink!_

Castiel jumped out of his skin; his heart hammered. A second later the sharp pang of his stitches being tugged too tightly set in, and his broken arm throbbed and burned. As he rode out the waves of pain rolling through his arm, through his abdomen, and to his wings, he gazed at the clock. He rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to flip the table in his anger. He had fallen asleep for three hours. He blinked; he stared, but the clock did not go back another three hours. _My back feels like I slept for three hours, so it has to be true_ , Castiel jested, but the disappointment still lingered. He had fallen asleep for three hours, sitting useless, snoring away the help he could have provided, leaving Sam alone to do the work yet again. Not only was he exhausted from squeezing out every bit of angelic magic from his grace to heal himself, he still was too weak to fight any Legion – he was too weak to fight off _sleep_ , for Heaven’s sake!

_What happened to you?_ Castiel asked himself. His automatic answer was, _Raphael_ , and a humorless chuckle escaped his lips. Sam asked an unconcerned, “What?” and when Castiel answered, “Unjust punishment,” Sam replied with an equally unconcerned hum. 

_If only Raphael and Zadkiel could see me now,_ Castiel thought, and he shook his head. _It seems Raphael had forgotten who I am, and so have I._ Castiel was the angel chosen to command all the garrisons of Heaven; he was the angel chosen to grip Michael’s Sword and raise him from perdition. In his true form, he dwarfs the tallest building in the western world, and with his thousand upon thousand feet wingspan, he could topple houses and lay waste to cities. He was Castiel, Angel of Thursday, Angel of the Lord, Messenger of God.

_“You have failed as an angel,”_ a voice that was not his own whispered from the back of his mind. _“You have proven yourself undeserving of Heaven’s help, and not only with your past actions of slaughtering angels in your blasphemous title of God.”_

And then Castiel found himself agreeing with the voice – Zadkiel’s voice. He sighed. _Had you been an actual angel,_ he thought, _you could have killed the Legion race properly, without being clouded by grief. You could have helped Sam. Now look at you._

Another _clink_ broke Castiel out of his sudden fit of self-loathing. Sam was gulping greedily at a beer he did not have before, and he placed it amongst the colony of bottles that had not been there before, either. Sam still sat in the same spot, and he still clicked away at the keyboard; his eyes, however, were wider, a tad more bloodshot, and more obviously tired than they were when they first began the search. Sam’s eyes flickered back and forth across the screen more frantically. Castiel was still fuming over the fact that he fell asleep, further providing evidence of his uselessness, but the fact that Sam was still searching told Castiel two things: one, that he was not needed for identification because there was nothing found, so he missed nothing; and two, Sam’s continued search was just that, a continued search that yielded nothing, and it was obviously causing Sam to become transparently desperate: his eyes were crazed and bloodshot with the increasing alcohol consumption, his knees both bounced up and down impatiently, and when he wasn’t using his hands to type, their fingernails were being chewed down to the nub or being thrummed against the table. 

In the few minutes of observing Sam’s decent into desperation, he had found no articles, no videos, no pictures, nothing that snapped him out of his state to have Castiel identify Sheila. With the state Sam was in, Castiel was beginning to worry.

“Sam?” Castiel tried.

Sam jumped and stared at the angel with the same wide eyes he had when looking at the screen, and this time he added a frightened and rapid rise and fall to his chest. Those wide, bloodshot eyes flickered from the screen to Castiel and back again before he whispered, “Cas, I think I’ve got her.” Without hesitating, he clicked the _rewatch_ option on a video Castiel didn’t realize Sam had considered an option – he watched it earlier and then continued searching without any visible reaction. Perhaps he was looking for outside evidence. Whatever he was doing, it had clearly been enough for him to believe this was it. His knees continued bouncing. His fingers still drummed. _For your sake,_ Castiel thought, _I hope this is it._

A plain-looking, middle-aged news reporter spoke into a microphone announcing a miracle. _Clue one pointing to Sheila._ He introduced the story of how one mother was able to save herself and her young son from a man likened to the devil. The next shot showed the reporter speaking to an equally plain, easily-forgettable woman with blonde hair pulled into a bun. As she told the reporter in her own words how days before the attack she had the eerie sensation of being followed, a picture of her attacker popped up onto the screen with a description beside it. Castiel squinted in concentration and tilted his head as the woman returned to the screen.

_It’s a miracle, indeed,_ Castiel thought, and he let out a chuckle. The attacker was over six-feet, weighed over two-hundred pounds, and had arms that looked thicker than the woman was; she was barely over five feet, skinny as a rail, and had a face as delicate as a child’s.

“My neighbor called seconds – mere seconds! – before he barged into my house, telling me she was worried about a strange man circling my house, and I barely had time to retreat up the stairs. I was halfway up the stairs when he came in, and my only thought was my son, Asher. My attacker chased after me and shoved my head against the wall by my son’s door, and I blacked out for a moment, and when I woke up he was walking over me with Asher crying in his arms.” 

The woman paused mid-story and cleared her throat. She wrapped her arms around herself and stuttered a moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Next thing I know,” she says, and her voice cracked, “I wake up – I blacked out again, somehow – and I am comforting my son, and my leg is bleeding, and my attacker is holding a bloody knife in his hands, but he was unconscious. ” She took a deep breath. “If my neighbor Lisa hadn’t warned me, I would have never have known; I wouldn’t be the least bit prepared to defend my son. She’s . . . she’s my angel.”

When the reporter asked where this neighbor was, the woman pointed somewhere off to her left, and the back of some woman’s head came into view. She had a waterfall of raven hair that shimmered in the afternoon sun. Castiel checked the date on the video. _It was today, not long after I got out of the hospital. She could still be there._ When the woman's name, Lisa, was called, she turned around, and Sheila’s true face – Liora’s face – was revealed. Seeing her skin like a dying ember and stitched mouth caused what little power Castiel’s grace had left to pulsate over his body, causing his fingertips to go numb and his limbs to burn with a weak fire. Though her vessel’s face showed pure sympathy, Sheila could not pull off such a look. Castiel got the impression that she knew she’d be found, and her knowing smirk leaked to her vessel’s thin lips.

The video paused. “Castiel,” Sam breathed, “if it’s her, she is _minutes_ away from here. Tell me it’s her –”

And without letting Sam finish, Castiel confirmed, “It’s her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:
> 
> [With Suspicion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l3m3jXnYMsQ) \- Gone Girl Soundtrack
> 
> I apologize first and foremost for the month-long absence. I work at a camp that requires my full attention, with only a couple days off after every week to refuel, sleep, eat normal food, and then prepare for the next week of campers with special needs. Basically 24/7 care -- and I love it. But enough about me. That just explains why I haven't posted in a month. Time flies!
> 
> I will hopefully be posting a couple more chapters before I have to go up to the mountains again. Hope you guys enjoy! I'm working on some other stuff as well, like a Sherlock piece as well as a Firefly/Doctor Who crossover. Both are works in progress and probably will not be seen for months and months to come. (The Demon Cure literally took me half a year to write). So yeah. As per usual, you all are amazing, and I appreciate the time you give to read what I write. Leave comments if you wish, and I hope to hear from you lovelies soon!


	9. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benny did not flinch at this. Instead, he said, “But it ain’t easy, is it.” Dean stopped. Curiosity stayed his blade, as Benny probably suspected it would. “I’ve seen your little fits, Dean. I know the signs.”

“You asked, last time we were here together,” Benny began, “what happens to monsters that die in monster heaven.” He spread his arms wide as if to embrace Dean, and opened his whole body up for inspection. Dean’s eyes trailed up and down, searching for a sign that he had suffered the attack Sam said Benny did. Aside from the grime and dirt typical of a visitor to Purgatory, Benny was unscathed. He put his arms back down. “After a week, maybe more, you come back, all shiny and new, only to try to survive up until you can’t.” He lifted a finger and slowly twirled it around. “And around and around we go.”

“Around and around we _have_ gone,” Dean snapped. He lifted his blade to point at his former friend, but Benny did not seem the least bit surprised. In fact, with his furrowed brow and slight frown, he looked almost sad to see the man he calls brother pointing a blade at him. Dean shook away the guilt relentlessly gnawing at his bowels. “Tell me why you’ve been following me, Benny.”

Benny’s eyes flickered from Dean’s face to his stolen blade and back. Dean cocked an eyebrow, and a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. Benny spoke as soon as Dean lowered the blade. “At first, I wanted to see if it really was you that crawled outta that _thing._ ”

“What thing?”

“Must’ve been about, hell, maybe a year ago? The ground shook somethin’ fierce, and a bright ball of light touched down, like a comet, destroying everything around it. The screams were ear shatterin’. I went to look, but it was only a big ball of light in a crater. Colder’n hell, and it felt alive. I had to leave ‘cause I wasn’t the only one curious about it – Leviathan particularly liked it, but one touch, and they were vaporized – but I checked on it every now and again.

“A few days ago, I was makin’ my rounds, and that was when the earthquake hit again. A gust of cold wind blew out over maybe a mile or two, and when I arrived at the crater, I saw what I couldn’t believe was you gettin’ up, all black-eyed and fierce. Then –” Benny chuckled, a sound like the rumble of thunder before it crashes, and he shook his head. “Man, I ain’t never seen you kill like that. It was gory as hell, but I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t graceful.”

Dean spread his arms wide and bowed with a shameless, cocky grin. Benny’s lips twitched once more into a grin, but it faded too quickly. A shadow cast over his face. He sighed, “So that’s why I followed you. After you killed all those Leviathan, I saw you. I almost didn’t recognize you, Dean.” Benny extended a hand to Dean and gestured at his whole body. “You were supposed to be a bright and shiny soul attractin’ every God damn monster for miles.” His hand fell back to his side with a _slap._ “Instead . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, brother, but you _ain’t_ lookin’ good.”

Dean let out a forced gasp. “Benny, you wound me,” he joked.

His jovial smile went cold, however, when Benny added, “You’re not human anymore.” 

Dean hated how Benny’s clear blue eyes were swimming in grief. His grip on the blade tightened. When he blinked, the _click_ broke the silence, and Dean was intensely satisfied with Benny’s flinch in response to Dean’s black demon eyes. He advanced on the vampire, taking slow steps. The debris underfoot crunched. Benny shrunk back with a twitch to his fingers at every breaking twig beneath Dean’s boots. 

“You’re damn right I’m not human,” Dean growled. He raised the blade.

Benny did not flinch at this. Instead, he said, “But it ain’t easy, is it.” Dean stopped. Curiosity stayed his blade, as Benny probably suspected it would. “I’ve seen your little fits, Dean. I know the signs.”

“What signs?” Dean demanded. His palms were getting itchy. His muscles coiled and trembled. He needed to swing the blade.

“I felt it, too. Unbearable pain. Eatin’ you alive. It’s triggered when we feel near human. When I left the Old Man and settled down with Andrea, I felt that. Fightin’ the monster within – or in your case, fightin’ your inner demons.” Dean let out a single chuckle, and so did Benny. When what little humor Dean allowed evaporated, Benny took a deep breath. “The changes we went through are soul deep, brother. We were once human. What you’re feelin’ is your soul trying to get back to that. You and your soul can fight it, but brother, there ain’t no goin’ back.”

Dean scoffed. “What, you mean goin’ back to human?”

“It’s tryin’ to,” Benny chuckled. “It can, however, kill you. And I don’t mean the general you, Dean, ‘cause whereas my soul was bound for Purgatory the minute I was turned, yours was bound for Heaven or Hell. My monster soul is transformed; yours is still human, but tainted. Poisoned.” Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s still trying to fight whatever changes made to it in just a year.”

“My soul was demonized,” Dean added. Benny gulped. “You say I was in that thing – a _cage_ , it’s called – for about a year? Try _years, decades_ of torture.”

“I believe it,” Benny whispered. Dean inched closer. “You look it.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why I don’t think you should go topside. With the way you are, brother, it would be a very bad idea. It ain’t you.”

“It isn’t that bad, _brother._ ” Dean began to slowly circle the vampire. Benny picked up on it, and he was not prey. He sidestepped around Dean, following that circle, refusing to be overwhelmed. Where he was wary, Dean was predatory. “I can make killing look like an art form, right?” Dean threatened. His smile was shameless.

Benny laughed. His smile, however, was forced. His pupils dilated. “I didn’t say that, you peacock.”

Dean lunged without warning, and Benny was only slightly prepared. Dean growled as they rolled around in the debris. Twigs and rocks dug into Dean’s back and arms. He saw flashes of white as Benny bore his fangs. Shades of gray and brown and olive green from the surrounding forest spun with them as they fought. Benny managed to pin Dean down to the ground, but Dean kicked him off, and he hurled into the air. He landed in a gasping heap on the ground. Dean stood and walked over to him, and for a moment he just watched as Benny gasped for air. Then he placed a foot on the vampire’s chest.

“You said there’s no goin’ back,” Dean recalled. Benny only stared as he panted. “If I’m still around when you come back, you come lookin’ for me.” The vampire’s eyes were pools of sorrow. Dean bared his teeth and forced himself to look at the man he once fought alongside. There was a time Dean risked his hide to help Benny; there was a time Dean would have killed for him. Their last goodbye was a memory that used to fill Dean with nauseating regret, and slicing the blade through Benny’s neck was painful. Like cutting off his own arm. Looking at Benny now, Dean could feel a hint of that regret. Alongside it, however, and with a much larger need, was the ache in his arms, the twitch in his fingers. The longing to swing the blade.

“You come lookin’ for me,” Dean repeated, “so I can kill you again, _brother_.”

Benny closed his eyes as Dean lifted the blade. The second it decapitated Benny, spraying blood across his chest, Dean howled in agony and crashed to the ground beside the now headless vampire. What felt like a clawed hand ripped through his chest and squeezed his lungs, tore at his heart, twisting it around and rearranging his insides. He heard a squish and an internal crunch, as if his bones and veins and spine were finding a new arrangement. A white-hot flame coursed through his limbs. _“It’s still trying to fight whatever changes made to it in just a year.”_ Benny, even dead, was reminding him that what Dean did, what he went through, what was still changing him. Every kill he made, everything he decided to kill, was going to leave a scar upon his tainted soul. More poison added to his core.

Dean opened his eyes. It was over as quickly as it arrived. He looked to his left, and Benny’s lifeless head stared at him. Dean slapped it away with a disgusted, _“Ew,”_ and stood. Though a residual ache left his legs sore, there was no hint of the agony he endured. The poisoning he imagined was no more than a ghost. There was no hint of remorse for killing the vampire for whom he once cared. There was only a hollow feeling.

After a deep breath, Dean returned to the waterfall in the blink of an eye. The refreshing crash of the falls against the mouth of the river welcomed him. He took off his boots, his jeans, flannel, undershirt, and jacket, and set them aside on a rock beside the river. He waded into the waist-deep water in nothing but his boxers. The new gore and blood spattered across Purgatory’s grime and dirt already caked into his face would be washed away. Any hint of the murder he committed would ride the current downstream. He took his time scrubbing away the days he spent wandering. When he was clean, his next destination would be the human portal.

 _It’s time I raise a little hell,_ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:
> 
> [I am a Destroyer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghddmDLKx6Y) \- Pg.lost
> 
> RIP (again) Benny. Please don't hate me, readers, lol. 
> 
> Honestly, it's part of character development, and I apologize to both you and myself (with whom I was very upset when I realized the story was heading in that direction) that we had to witness Benny dying. Again. BUT, with my headcanon that monsters in Purgatory never truly die, we know he'll come back! Whether Dean will survive such an act is a different story. (Actually, it's this story, and you're gonna see if he metaphorically survives or not, but you get my lingo).
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed! One more chapter to come before I go on hiatus again! Leave comments if you wish! <3


	10. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I owe you _nothing,_ ” Sheila said through clenched teeth.
> 
> “You owe me _everything!_ ”

It took everything in Sam not to throw Castiel over his shoulder, toss him into the Impala, and make like a bat out of Hell to Sheila. After Sam filled whatever flasks he had with water and had Castiel bless them into holy water, Sam tossed them in the trunk and took off the second Castiel was seated in the passenger seat. Once again, the speed limit was just a number, and since it was nighttime in a small neighborhood, the streets were empty and ripe for ignoring stop signs. Sam performed the worst parallel parking job of his life as he slid into an open spot with a screeching halt. When he shot a glance at Castiel, he was digging his fingers into the seat with wide eyes and a slight pant. Were Sam’s heartbeat not pounding in his ears like a gong, Castiel’s current state would have been humorous. Instead, Sam made a bee-line for the trunk without a second glance.

Sam handed Castiel a flask of holy water and tucked one for himself in the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the demon-killing knife and concealed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Isn’t that going to come off as a little . . . hostile?” Castiel asked. He rubbed at the shoulder of his bad arm. “She cannot make a deal with us if she’s dead – rather, more accurately, if she is injured and no doubt insulted. She is too powerful to be killed by that, Sam.”

The trunk squeaked as it slammed shut. “It’s more a symbol than a weapon,” Sam corrected. A lock of hair fell in his face and he tucked it behind his ear before taking long strides up to Sheila’s meatsuit’s house, which was a couple doors down from where he poorly parked the Impala. Castiel tried to keep up with a pained hiss and a clutch at his abdomen. He asked what kind of symbol Sam meant, to which Sam replied, “One that means I’m not fucking around,” in a huff.

The door to the house was that of a polished red surrounded by the gray-blue painted wood of the rest of the house. The windows’ inside view was blocked by creamy curtains. A set of stairs connected to a porch of dark gray wood, upon which a couple of lawn chairs separated by a lush potted plant sat. Sam and Castiel stood a moment to admire the clean-cut lawn and lavish appearance of the house. When Castiel took a step forward, Sam placed a hand on the angel’s chest and suggested, “Maybe I should go in first.” He took the angel’s head tilt as a sign to explain. “Seeing an angel – even if you are on the mend – might make her feel threatened.”

Castiel’s remark, “And the knife won’t?” was as feisty as expected, and familiar enough for Sam to allow a grin to escape, along with an affectionate eye roll. He licked his lips to wipe the grin away and replied, “Like I said, I’ll go first.”

The door creaked open. Before them stood a sun-kissed, raven-haired, and brown-eyed, familiar woman. “Or,” she said in a smooth, surprisingly deep voice, “both of you can come in worry-free of offense to me and enjoy a delicious cup of Guatemalan coffee.” Sam stood straighter, and his fingers itched to grab the knife – or her throat. He had yet to decide for which he yearned more. 

The woman’s lips slanted into a smirk that seemed unnatural for her face, but seemed to be, at the same time, typical of the one possessing her. Even in a different body, Sam read Sheila all over this poor meatsuit.

Sensing the wave of loathing emanating off of Sam like radioactivity, Sheila giggled, “Come, Sam, my Boy King: are you going to deny me your company?” She opened the door wider in invitation and encouragement, and all the while her stolen eyes never left Sam’s.

The need to appear large and threatening washed over Sam and tapped into the primal instincts buried within him. He was reminded of their first encounter deep within the halls of the bunker: he puffed out his chest and stood taller with his back straight and chin up. His gaze was equally unwavering, just as hers was now, and just as hers was then in the bunker as she was measuring Sam’s moxie. In contrast to their first meeting where he coward behind a line of salt, he walked up the steps with a strut worthy of an unabashed peacock fluffing its feathers. Sheila’s smirk became impossibly cockier as she eyed him strutting in through the door, but her scrutiny did not extend to Castiel, even as he walked between them when he entered the house. Her stare ceased only after she closed the door and padded with bare feet to the kitchen – of course, she would not be Sheila if she did not do something that aided her charismatic aura, so before she turned her back on Sam, she sent a shameless wink his way. Sam allowed a hint of a smirk to pass his lips. It was rare he had such a game to play when facing a demon.

“Lisa has the most _wonderful_ contraption I have ever had the fortune of borrowing from a vessel,” Sheila called from the pantry to Sam’s left. The kitchen was roomy and immaculate with granite countertops, chrome appliances, and dark wood cupboards and drawers. A moment later Sheila glided out the pantry with small plastic cups with different labels. She tapped the previously mentioned contraption: an expensive, chrome coffee machine. “The coffee it produces allude to its magic,” she described. “It’s as if it were crafted by angels.” She pointed a polished finger at Castiel and asked in an uncharacteristic sweet voice, “You wouldn’t happen to have had a hand in crafting this, would you, angel?” She tittered at Castiel’s signature squint and head tilt and fetched matching white coffee mugs from the cupboard above the coffee machine. “I do so _love_ playing house,” she sighed, placing a plastic coffee cup inside the machine.

“Inside a body that’s not yours,” Sam pointed out.

Sheila swiped a raven lock that had fallen out of the carefully styled bun behind her ear. Her mouth was in a tamed smirk and her eyes were hooded beneath her eyelids. “If I do recall correctly (and I do because I can see the past as well as the future), I believe you attempted a reverse exorcism during our last encounter.” Sam fit his mouth into a tight line. Her tamed smirk turned into a devilish grin, for her counter had the desired effect. That grin melted away into a sympathetic smile and an upturned brow as she padded over to where Sam stood still planted firmly by the door. She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the section of the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the living room directly to his left. “Relax, Sam Winchester, and come have coffee.”

Sam ripped his hand from her grip and snapped, “I’m not here to play house, Sheila. I’m here –”

“Yes, _yes_ , I know for what you came here to ask,” she interrupted with an eye roll. She gestured to the countertop again and padded back to the coffee machine as it filled the first of the three white mugs she pulled out. When she set in on the counter she was so intent on getting Sam to sit behind, she gestured toward the mug, further encouraging Sam forward. He glanced at Castiel, and the angel nodded. Sam decided to sit with Castiel while an oily anger began to boil at the pit of his stomach. Sheila smiled, teeth and all, in approval before she glided to the pantry and the fridge and placed the contents – cream and sugar – in front of Sam and Castiel. 

“I know you must be frustrated after our last meeting,” she began. She folded her lean arms across her chest and leaned her elbows against the counter. “I had my reasons for my behavior.” Sam slid the mug of coffee over to Castiel with a thought of, _He looks like he needs it more than I do_. The bags underlying his eyes seemed more prominent, and Sam’s blatant hostility towards a greater demon were most likely not helping Castiel’s exhausted state. 

“And what reasons were those?” he asked, returning his attention to Sheila.

Her eyes flickered between Castiel and Sam, obviously taking note of something, saving it for later. Sam gave her nothing else but an expectant grimace. “I was in the midst of a deal and you and your hulking, rage-filled figure barged in. I had to leave in order to avoid appearing unprofessional.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief and humorlessly chuckled, “Unprofessional,” under his breathe. 

“I have a reputation to maintain,” Sheila added. The second mug of coffee was filled, signaled with a fizzing and hissing from the machine. 

Castiel asked, “As The Miracle Worker?” in reference to the research Sam had been doing with interrogated Legion, but she ignored by drowning out Castiel’s voice with the sink as she refilled the water to boil. 

As she placed the newly filled mug before Sam, he felt a stinging pang shoot through his neck as his frustration grew. Castiel’s leading question would be saved for later.

“I couldn’t give two fucks about your reputation,” Sam growled. Sheila just stared at him with hooded eyelids. “What I do care about is my brother, and you are gonna get us to him.”

“I am?” Sheila asked. She tugged at a drawer Sam did not know was in front of her and retrieved a few teaspoons from inside. She started spooning the sugar and adding it to Sam’s coffee without asking.

It was all Sam could do not to pull out the knife and shove it into her throat. His muscles grew tense as both of his hands curled into tight fists. “ _Yes,_ because our deal is _far_ from fulfilled.” She only blinked as she waited for an explanation. Her face gave away no hint to anything else other than amusement. The oily anger was evolving into greasy, churning frustration, and he lifted a curled fist, stretching it out wide, wanting to reach over and wrap it around her slender throat, but closed it again and gently placed it back on the counter. He told himself he could not murder her because it would be inconvenient. “You told me we’d save Dean – you told me at the end of it all I’d have my brother alive, and he’s not. Not really.”

“He is alive,” Sheila rebutted. “If your definition of alive is being suspended in a state of limbo.” She looked at Castiel. The coffee machine fizzled and hissed. She waited until Castiel cleared and throat and nodded before retrieving the newly filled mug.

“That’s not _saving_ him,” Sam argued. “You said we’d _save_ him.”

“I said we were to save him _more or less._ ” She returned to her spot before Sam and Castiel with dainty steps and her mug in hand, and she began to fill it with teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar. “And we did,” she added, as if it were the most simplistic thing in the world.

“So you lied to me.”

“It wasn’t so much as lying as it was withholding the whole truth.”

“I signed the dotted line, allowed you to take over my body with your demon _filth_ , for you to save my brother, and all I got – all _we_ got” – Sam gestured toward Castiel – “was Dean trapped in a cage designed to torture somewhere in fucking Purgatory!” As Sam’s voice rose from a shout to a howl, he stood, and he towered over Sheila’s small vessel. She no longer looked amused. If Sam was cautious, he would know to back off, for she looked like dynamite with a lit fuse. His fuse had already gone off, blowing his reserve to pieces. “You owe me him alive!”

“I owe you _nothing_ ,” Sheila said through clenched teeth.

“You owe me _everything!_ ”

She blinked¸ and her big brown eyes turned into a merciless all-white with a _click._ A wave of energy rolled off of her, causing Sam’s hair to blow back from his face and his eyes to water. Castiel slapped a hand on Sam’s chest and forced him to step back. When Sam peeked at Castiel, his eyes were impossibly bluer; Sam realized they were glowing a dull blue. Whatever power the angel’s grace had left, he was ready to use it in defense.

“Sam Winchester,” Sheila’s voice boomed, “I grow tired of your blatant disrespect.” For a second, Sam swore he saw a burst of light emitting a dim semblance around her. “You blame me for your adolescent feelings of inadequacy and pout like a child when I warned you we could not save all of your brother. What I did for you was a favor, and one that swayed to you more than it did me.” Slowly she stepped out from behind the counter and sauntered toward Sam. With her every delicate step, Castiel pushed Sam farther back. Soon they would have no more room to back up; soon they would slam into the door and be cornered. 

“Do you know how many outcomes resulted in your brother’s death? In the loss of the angel? In _your_ death?” She came closer, ever closer. “I did more than you asked by meticulously orchestrating a scenario in which your brother lived in a state of limbo, where you were not murdered, and the angel set free. Nearly every road lead to your brother’s death, and none where he walked free. Would you rather he dead than _near dead_ , my Boy King?” She spat the last words, and they sounded more venomous than Sam was used to. 

Sheila ceased her stalking, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, her meatsuit’s brown eyes stared back at a silent-stricken Sam. _“Don’t,”_ she said, and her voice was soft, but surprisingly firm, “disrespect me again, Sam.” Her eyes rolled down to the hem of his jacket and back up to his face. She added, “And you can start by placing that special knife on the counter where I can see it, please,” before she turned around and padded daintily back to her spot behind the counter. 

Sam slowly followed, and he weighed his options as he watched her sip at her coffee. He sat back down on the stool and gave a hesitant Castiel a reassuring nod. Sam placed a hand on the spot where the knife was tucked away. Sam stared at Sheila longer than he should have and decided to start small by taking a sip of the coffee she had given him. He had to admit it was not disgusting. She even added just enough sugar.

Just as Sam hoped, his light teasing worked. “I said please, didn’t I?” she said in an innocent voice, though her hooded eyes were far from innocent.  
Without leaving her gaze, Sam gently pulled out the knife from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the counter, but as Sheila reached for it, he slid it across to Castiel, who squinted at it before sending a questioning glare towards Sam. Sam gave a grin that evolved into a smirk Sheila would be proud of – and by the look on her face, she seemed it. 

“You also said to put it on the counter where you can see it,” he told her, “and you can see it.”

By the look Sheila gives Sam, one comprised of a raised thin brow and a cocky smirk that turned into a grin while she bit her bottom lip, he was thrust back into memories of being given the same looks by women with whom he shared a steamy one night stand as he rolled through town (most of which were when he was soulless). To make the tension he felt become that much more laced with sexual intent, Sheila admitted, “I am torn between wanting to kiss you and slap you, Sam Winchester.” From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Castiel slowly turn his gaze to Sam to gauge his reaction. He displayed his signature concentrated squint when Sheila added, “You’re bordering on the latter, my King,” as she brought her mug to her lips.

Sam knew the flattery she feigned was simply that – feigned. She was only flaunting her ability to help Sam get Dean back, knowing full-well that Sam would do almost anything she asked. Her warning him not to disrespect her again and asking for the demon knife was evidence of her flaunt, and Sam’s compliance was also evidence. The flirtatious banter was, and has always been, a power play, and Sam’s stunt with the semantics of the knife was his move on the chess board. He was more than privy to her game, and he would be damned if he was not going to join in on the play (even if being seduced by her charm, willingly or not, made his mouth taste bitter with every word). If she wanted to tease Sam, goad him until he was blue in the face, so be it: Sam had more than enough experience in the art of being a little shit.

And she knew it.

“I must warn you: your brother’s rescue will not be any easy one.” Her mug made a tiny clink as she placed it back on the countertop. “What you may or may not find of Dean will change you.”

Castiel never ceased in his timing for blunt questions. “Were you changed,” he inquired, “when you found your sister?” 

Sheila’s gaze snapped so quickly to Castiel’s, Sam did not even catch the moment her eyes changed from brown to all white. He was also surprised her meatsuit’s neck did not snap clean off. The next sounds were almost simultaneous: one second was the sound of whooshing, whistling air past his ear, and the next second was synonymous to a gunshot. Sam quickly spun around to find a fracture in the paint on the space of wall above a lamp, and murky brown liquid flowing from a stain on the fracture. When Sam looked under the small stand on which the mint colored lamp was perched, the carcass of the mug lay bleeding coffee onto the carpet.

Sam’s head snapped back to drink in Sheila’s expression. He would not dare miss her look of surprise, nor could he miss the chance to assess her reaction to the mention of her sister.

“I assume you found her,” Castiel continued, driven by determination, “based on insight as to what we may find.”

“How were you made known about this information?” she asked. Her face was blank, and her eyes almost bored. Her voice gave no significant inflation. It was her hands that gave her away. Though they lay casually on the countertop, they quivered. 

“Zadkiel, the archangel.” Castiel cleared his throat. “He told me about Sariel and your sister Dalya.”

This time her eyes, now wide, gave a hint as to what Sheila felt alongside her trembling hands. Then something else flickered across her expression. It was that of curiosity. “Zadkiel the Merciful told you about Sariel and . . . and Dalya?” Her eyes immediately went red and watery, and she turned her head and her gaze toward the ground. When Castiel confirmed that it was Zadkiel, she looked at Castiel again, and that flicker Sam thought he saw before disappeared as swiftly as it came when she wiped away the single tear that escaped.

Sheila inhaled deeply and exhaled as equally deep. “When . . . Dalya . . . when she sacrificed herself for _him_ , my _Moreh_ refused to let me mourn. Immediately after Sariel perished, _Moreh_ killed me with the same knife he used to stab my sister, and he stole my soul before it could ascend to peace. He did not waste time with my transformation. He sewed my lips shut so I would not beg for mercy, cry from grief, nor curse him with my ever fiber.” Sam almost hated to admit it, but his curiosity was starving to hear the details of demonic convergence from a demon, especially a greater-demon, the first of her race of demon. “Other souls that had been there a thousand years before I had arrived were more human than I was within the hour, and they were treated far kinder, too. The night ended, and where those souls still had a shred of humanity within them, I had it carved out of me. That was when the demon you killed became _Moreh_ , teacher, and I apprentice to the cage for archangels. We had some successes, more losses. I am partly to blame for how few archangels there are. Yet they still thrive.” For the first time since she reminisced, her familiar cocky grin returned. “Like Zadkiel.”

Before Sam could question it, she continued: “I became free of _Moreh_ when he and Azazel had their quarrel, and _Moreh_ was sentenced to a hundred Earth years to Alistair’s creativity. I developed my talent for future-telling and deal-making, and I went in search for the cage.” Her white eyes were so distant and lost in their remembering. She blinked, and with a soft _click_ , her eyes were once again brown. Though they still looked past Sam and into a far off memory, they looked less wise, less ancient. “What I found, well . . . it was not Dalya. It changes you, seeing the disaster and devastation wrought by the cage and finding the remains of your sibling birthed from that desolation.”

_“Remains?”_ Sam asked. If Dean was dead – if what they were going to find of Dean was just his corpse, Sheila would have just said so. She was trying to be ominous, and purposefully morbid and hopeless. She was mysterious and a perfect saleswoman. A perfect crossroads demon, only far more regal and charismatic. Sam was, as he was the time he found her in the bunker, utterly seduced.

“It is why I am so fond of you, my Boy King. Why, despite the odds being against the desired scenario, I helped you have it. I share the need to find your blood. You asked me why I wanted to help you. I said it was because you were the Boy King anointed by Azazel.” Sam’s mouth went dry and his throat ached for lubrication, but when he gulped, all he felt was sand sliding down his parched throat. “That was a lie. A sister whose hero was lost understands a young brother whose own hero was lost to the same villain.”

Sam’s chest was tight, and his lungs felt like deflated balloons. The familiar weight of grief like lead replaced the blood flowing through his veins, and it left a metallic taste on his dry tongue. _A damn good saleswoman,_ Sam agreed, repeating a previous speculation, as his eyes stung with the tiny pinprick of held-back tears.

Castiel lifted his cup clumsily and started gulping down the now lukewarm coffee as if it were the first cup of water he had seen in days. He was trying to keep his mouth occupied, giving himself an excuse not to say a word, most likely. Sheila knew how to play them, and Sam hated to even acknowledge it was true; if, however, he wanted to continue playing at all, he would allow Sheila this sliver of control. Eventually she would gift him with what he wanted.

After a moment of silence, Sheila finished the last of her coffee, and she grabbed Sam’s and Castiel’s mugs and padded to the sink. As she rinsed out the cups, she spoke over the running water: “Upon reaching the portal to Hell, where the two trees meet by the stream, you will walk five miles due east until you reach the Shrine of Eve built by the first vampires, and then head north-east for three miles.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sam interrupted. Sheila turned the water off and placed the mugs into a half-full dishwasher. “Where is all of this? Are you talking about – ?”

“Purgatory,” Castiel finished. Sheila grinned, though she was not looking at them, as she was too busy faking indifference. She confirmed in a non-chalant, “Those were directions,” for added effect to her performance.

Sam silently congratulated himself on his patient game playing and asked, “How are we getting into Purgatory? I doubt any Reaper is going to want to smuggle me in again. I heard the last one that helped me out was killed.”

“I am very persuasive,” Sheila purred. Her attention was again focused on Sam and Castiel, and still mostly Sam. She reclaimed her spot behind the counter, arms crossed and folded on the table, and resumed her hooded-eyed stare and cocky grin. When she blinked, her eyes turned white with a _click_. Sam rolled his eyes. “I can persuade a Reaper to open the door for you and the angel. The payment for such expensive tickets will do all the speaking for me.”

Sam let out a single chuckle, and if it sounded like it was in mockery, he meant it to be. “And what’s that?” he asked flatly.

Sheila then turned her borderline come-hither smirk at Castiel with a cocked thin eyebrow. Her full attention was now on a squinty-eyed, pursed-lip Castiel. She leaned forward, and a lock of hair fell before her eyes. That same look, the same wave of charm that seduced Sam, was obvious for him to see now that he had dealt with her once. Already he knew he was going to dislike her proposal.

“Your grace,” she hummed.

Sam looked at Castiel and expected to see utter disbelief and the pursed-lip glower Castiel wore when he was offended; instead, Sam found those tired blue eyes filled with apology as they met Sam’s. It was then Sam knew the desperation to redeem himself Castiel had bubbling beneath the surface had already made the decision. Still, Sam tried to say, “No,” and it turned into an angry roar of, “No, stop!” as Castiel took a deep breath and put two fingers to Sam’s forehead. He did not have time to swat Castiel’s hand away before the angel, the demon, and entire house melted away to reveal the greasy walls and musky smells of the hotel room. Sam stumbled forward to his knees and began to dry-heaven as bitter bile coated his throat and threatened to spill over. The room spun violently, and his hands and knees stung from the fall, but it did nothing to keep Sam from spewing out every curse word he knew towards Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one before hiatus #2! Work is work, yo. Hope you guys enjoyed. As you guys can probably tell, I love lore, and Sheila, and Sam being a little shit. YASS. Leave comments if you wish because I'd love to hear from you! Thank you once again for taking the time to read what I wrote. You are all wonderful! <3


	11. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel tried to be an angel. He tried. Humanity was always so tempting to him, and this deal which Sheila presented to him was mouth-wateringly seductive. He gulped. It felt like swallowing glass.

The world was a hurricane, and his limbs were the rickety foundations. Castiel collapsed to the plush carpet with a violent cough threatening to end in the retching his stomach wanted as a result of the dizziness. His throat felt as if it were being scraped raw with sandpaper, over and over and over. His lungs boiled over with a liquid that left a metallic, rusty taste in his mouth. When he opened his eyes, Castiel saw blood spatter on the section of wall beneath the counter before another fit of coughing began. More rust. More coppery blood. More shredding. He expected nothing less after teleporting Sam back to the hotel. If Zadkiel saw Castiel, he would nod in approval at what had become of the angel.

It felt like ages, but the attack of pain had subsided, and when he opened his eyes a pair of dainty feet were before him. He followed the slender legs up to the curvy torso and landed on Sheila’s face, her true face, all red-orange-black embers and pearly eyes. Her expression hinted at nothing. Slack. Flat. Almost bored. Yet she extended her hand, and Castiel took it.

When he was at his feet, Sheila said, “Your decision to send our darling Sam away was a well-made one.” She pulled her hand away and clenched it into a fist against her side. “And though I value his opinion, his thoughts on this particular deal would only be biased.” She finally grinned, and it was typically smarmy. Screaming of confidence. “Besides, angel, this deal is more for you than it is for him.”

Castiel opened his mouth, and immediately he covered his mouth as a cough escaped his lips. It was small and passed quickly. He cleared his throat. “I thought you were making the deal out of sympathy for Sam,” he mused, and his voice came out more gruff than usual.

“That’s the reason for the deal, not a telling to whom the deal is proposed.”

A red flag went off in Castiel’s mind, but he burned it down. “You need my grace for this deal, and in return I am able to rescue Dean – or whatever we may find of him.” Sheila nodded. “My answer must be obvious.”

“You won’t even hear the details?” Her tone went higher, playing at innocence. “The best part, my _generosity?_ ” Castiel waited with a blank face. She leaned in closer, and her body pressed lightly against his. Her lips brushed his ear. His grace burned hot against his skin. “You will get your grace _back_ , angel,” she whispered, and she pulled away to look at him. “The Reaper with whom I will be trading your grace for tickets to Purgatory will not be allowed to keep it, for he will be dead. Unable to spread word of your traveling to the archangel.” Her grin became more impossibly self-absorbed. “How convenient for you.”

“I expected much, due to your affinity for Sam,” Castiel replied. Sheila cocked an eyebrow. Her grin became less cocky and more devious. Castiel realized he had to choose his words more carefully. “My answer is still yes. I would not have agreed with anything less.”

“If it made you feel _useful_ , I believe you would.” She leaned closer again. Her breathe smelled of bitter coffee. “What was it you thought? If you can’t use your grace, you may as well be rid of it?”

Castiel flinched; he shuffled away from her with a hammering heart. The only one he allowed – the only one he dared allow – to know of his desperate need was himself, and he hardly wanted to admit it. It was a hollow plea in the midst of drug-induced sleep during his stay in the hospital. For an angel to want to rid itself of its grace was not only disgraceful, it was blasphemous enough to face the rest of their endless days in Heaven’s prison. Castiel thought that perhaps if his intentions were for redemption, pawning his grace away would be, in some way, noble. He was fooling himself. It was selfish. His grace was withered and rotting beneath his skin, and was so close to powerless – he was barely strong enough to send Sam away, and it left him a wheezing mess on the floor. More than once, his hazy, drugged-subjected mind thought, _If I cannot draw strength from my grace, then I may as well be rid of it; I would rather be hindered by humanity than by dying grace._ It was usually followed by Zadkiel’s proclamation of, _“You have failed as an angel.”_

Castiel tried to be an angel. He tried. Humanity was always so tempting to him, and this deal which Sheila presented to him was mouth-wateringly seductive. He gulped. It felt like swallowing glass.

“I am useless as an angel, at this moment,” he admitted. He let out a breath he did not know he was holding. “If I can use what is left of my grace to find Dean and pay the debt I owe him, then I will take it shamelessly.” He reached for the demon-killing knife and held it by the blade. “I once thought I could live as close to humanity as was possible without losing my angelic nature, but I was mistaken. The only use my grace has left is this. I am useless with it.”

Sheila sighed, “Oh, Angel of Thursday,” and padded off to the cupboards from which she grabbed the coffee mugs. She came back to her spot in front of Castiel with a small vile with a blue ribbon tied around the rim. She uncorked the lid with a small _pop_ and placed it on the counter with a light _tink_. “You are wrong,” she continued. 

The red flag resurrected itself at the sight of the vile, too coincidentally placed in this vessel’s house, too eagerly retrieved. Before Castiel could question further, Sheila snatched the knife with graceful speed, and slit the skin beneath Castiel’s chin to expose the grace.

At first, the grace felt like a stream of cold, fresh water as it slipped from the wound and into the jar. It slithered slowly and glowed a pure sky blue. Soon, however, the sight became less beautiful, and the feeling became less blissful as it melted away to white hot panic. His inner voice yelled, _What are you doing, you fool! This is your grace!_ The panic poisoned his veins as a fiery pain swelled at his throat, making the wound from which the grace spilled sizzle. The fire reached around his neck and trailed his shoulders down to the joints of his wings. It was as if the feathers turned into torches of hell-fire. The burning became so intense that it nearly blinded him.

Then it was over: a numbness replaced the pain; a loss of feeling rolled over him like waves upon the beach, and soon he felt lighter, albeit a little off balance. He turned around instinctively to look at his wings, but there was nothing there. His head snapped back to Sheila’s face, and the face of her vessel stared back. Her true face was hidden.

It was done. Castiel was human.

“You are far from useless,” Sheila added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> [Jura](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYEgv4AQTPE) \- Pg.lost
> 
> Hiatus is temporarily over! I'm going to be posting three new chapters tonight. I just gotta look them over before I post but I'm sure you guys won't notice the long gap in between anyway so who cares! :P
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying the sequel so far! There's still a lot to go! This is another chapter I like because of Castiel's conflict with wanting his grace and wanting humanity. I just love Castiel and my headcanon that he wants to experience humanity. Feel free to leave comments my lovelies! Thank you for taking the time to read! <3


	12. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment’s silence passed as Sam started to slip into a state of sheer regret. The feeling of being hovered over by eminent danger. To see the trap placed but unable to find the tripwire that triggered it before it was too late was far worse than being caught unawares. The prey that walked unexpectedly into the slaughter could at least enjoy the last blissful moments of fearless peace. The quiet monotony of living. . . .

The midnight sky was an empty sea of deep azure. The streets were lit with dim streetlamps and what few stars were above. The moon sat at its perch, round and full, a shining lighthouse for the rolling black clouds off in the distance. _April brings showers_ , Sam thought, _May brings flowers._ Somewhere in his childhood memories, his mind conjured a babysitter whose face was blurry but whose voice was clear, telling him those words. The storm would come overhead by dawn, perhaps later, and bring with it the rain as some weeks in April promised. Usually Sam would make the decision to stay in one place solely because rain storms in this part of the state were too risky to drive through. His decision to stay was driven by other factors, such as Sheila and Castiel. As much as Sam wanted to drive away and leave Castiel behind, he could not, _even if he is an idiot_ , Sam added venomously.

After perhaps ten minutes of waiting for Castiel to show up at the hotel, Sam had to leave, lest he destroy the room in a rage. With the oily, bitter taste of his vexation in his mouth, he drove to the nearest billiards hall. He was through with being skammed, so he chose to be the con that night. He hustled the hotel rent and then some, fueled by righteous anger and a need for control. He left after an hour’s haul when his victim’s became aware of the skam. The acrid taste of irritation still lingered, but at least the need to ring Castiel’s throat had passed.

He spoke too soon.

After parking the Impala, he looked at his room on the second floor and saw the light peeking through the God-awful curtains. It was either Castiel or Sheila (or both) awaiting his return. Whoever it was, _someone_ was going to suffer Sam’s fury. The Impala’s door got a preview of said fury when Sam slammed it shut so hard the window rattled. Were Dean beside him, the wrath he would unleash onto Sam would be Biblical. 

Castiel flinched when Sam flung the door open and let it slam against the stopper that prevented the knob from denting the wall. Sam let his entrance tell Castiel how he felt; he only stood in the doorway, a looming figure of righteous, betrayal-induced rage, showing dominance with unwavering eyes. When Castiel stood, he stood tall, and though his chest was puffed and his shoulders were back, his tired eyes spoke volumes of apology. Still, it was clear he stood by his decision.

Sam slammed the door shut behind him and brushed his shoulder against Castiel’s none too gently as he stalked past him. “Is she here?” he barked. He tossed the keys onto his bed and checked the bathroom for any deceitful she-demons.

“No, she left shortly after she brought me back,” Castiel answered.

“Brought you back?” Sam repeated in a flat voice. He glared at Castiel, expecting him to say it, to confirm his graceless status; instead, those tired eyes only stared, and he remained silent. Sam scoffed. “Damn it, Castiel, I can’t _believe_ you.”

“Sam, please understand –”

Sam immediately interjected with a roar of, “How could you trust her?” Castiel said everything Sam needed to hear when the angel dumped him at the hotel room earlier. Now it was his turn to speak. “This is your _grace_ we’re talking about, Cas!”

“You trusted her,” Castiel argued. His sympathy and sorry’s dissolved into defense. “You ruined your anti-possession tattoo to allow her possession.”

“Yes, because I trusted her to save Dean; I was driven by the blind need to save him, and that is always how they get us. I trusted her to keep Dean alive and look where we are: pawning ourselves away.” Sam scoffed, a huff that turned into a humorless laugh. He shook his head. “You’ve been around us too long, Castiel. You’re picking up on our habit of dealing ourselves away to save the other.”

Castiel did not laugh with Sam. “Sheila kept you alive – she spared _my_ life as well as yours, and she found a way to preserve Dean’s life, even if it is in a state of limbo.” Sam sighed. “Her withdrawal of the whole truth is no doubt questionable, I know that, but she has nonetheless come through on her part of the bargain.”

“And you trust her to hold up her end enough to _become human?_ To lose your grace?”

Castiel’s mouth fit into a tight line, and Sam rubbed his face, trying to hide his grimace, and the laugh bubbling up at his throat. His sigh came out as a groan. A prelude to the outburst building up like lava in the vents of a volcano. 

“I don’t fully trust her, no,” Castiel replied to the Sam. “However, I trust her enough to give me back my grace, as she promised.”

Sam’s muscles coiled tight like a snake, and his curled first was the head, ready to strike. He could not look at Castiel, could not be within arm’s reach, lest he take those few steps forward and take out his frustration with Castiel, his anger at Sheila’s ability to seduce, on the now graceless angel standing before him. His fists were _begging_ for a hit. Sam laughed at his violent urges; he laughed at Castiel’s misplaced trust in the she-demon Sam himself wholeheartedly trusted with his and Dean’s lives. He took off his jacket and hung it as a means to release the tension in his muscles. It also gave him an excuse not to look at his friend.

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger,” Sam heartlessly chuckled. The worn plastic hanger squealed under the weight of his jacket. “You do realize that.”

“Did you,” Castiel retorted, “when you made the deal with her?”

Sam sighed, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes,” he answered. He leaned a shoulder against the wall beside him. He nodded and repeated, “Yes, I did.”

“Then you understand my position.”

 _“Exactly,”_ Sam laughed. He huffed, closed his eyes, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was growing back quickly. He opened his eyes to find Castiel with a small, sad grin. Weighted. “She had too much power then. Now? You gave her your _grace_ , Castiel.”

“It was dying.” Sam’s stomach dropped. He suspected it was not getting better, but _dying?_ “Slowly,” Castiel added, and Sam gulped, “but it wouldn’t heal while it was trying to keep me alive. Both it and I are, for now, better off without the other.”

“But what about your – ” It was then that Sam really looked at Castiel. He was so blinded by vexation that he failed to notice Castiel’s arm was cast-free, and that he moved without flinching. His skin was less pale, his eyes less shadowed. “You’re . . . not broken.”

Castiel shared in Sam’s attempt at humor and joined him in soft laughter. He explained, “My grace must have healed me upon its release. As I said before: both it and myself benefit from the other’s absence.”

“But what about Purgatory?” Sam’s anger may have subsided, but it was swiftly replaced with worry. “We’re at a bit of a disadvantage now. Humans can’t teleport, and we sure as hell can’t smite any monsters with just a touch.”

“We were at a disadvantage with me as an angel,” Castiel laughed humorlessly. Sam shrugged. “Humans generate a sort of aura in Purgatory to which all supernatural beings are attracted. They’re unnatural and not meant to be there. God wanted humans to have an escape route for this very reason.”

Sam decided to sit at the desk with Castiel, and he stretched his arms wide. His back cracked, and as he sat, he mused, “Restore balance to the status quo, thus the human portal.” Castiel nodded. “So isn’t it going to be worse with _two_ humans? What’s your point?”

“Angels generate a beacon. The more I used my powers – whether if it was to teleport or to fight – the brighter my beacon became. Even when I remained stationary, the light still brought forth any supernatural being within miles of my location.”

“So now we have a tactical advantage,” Sam sighed. A tired chuckle escaped his lips. Castiel squinted and tilted his head, so Sam explained: “That’s how I justified my decision, too, when I made the deal with Sheila.” Castiel’s squint turned into a furrowed brow. “I thought having insight into the future outweighed my idiotic decision to sign the contract. Then the stuff she said was going to happen actually started happening, and you were trapped and Dean was getting the shit kicked out of him. . . . I did anything she asked. I hated every bit of it, but . . .” Thorny regret blossomed inside his chest; it coiled around his neck and arms, red hot with anger. “But I was _desperate_ ,” he admitted. “I refused to admit it, but I became desperate. Hell, desperation has been driving this whole search for Sheila. I didn’t trust her at all, Cas, but I understand what being desperate can make you do.” Sam scoffed. “And so does she,” he added under his breath.

A moment’s silence passed as Sam started to slip into a state of sheer regret. The feeling of being hovered over by eminent danger. To see the trap placed but unable to find the tripwire that triggered it before it was too late was far worse than being caught unawares. The prey that walked unexpectedly into the slaughter could at least enjoy the last blissful moments of fearless peace. The quiet monotony of living. Sam felt like the starving mouse staring at the food on a mousetrap: he was eager for the prize, but fully aware of the permanent punishment that came with it. The trap could be real; the trap could be imagined. Sheila’s sympathy for Sam could be pure in its intent or it could be an act to gain control over Sam and Castiel. Sheila was an excellent manipulator, and was known to withhold the whole truth. Sam did not let it slip past his mind that Sheila had used Sam to kill Logan’s demon, her _Moreh_ , while also giving him what he wanted. Laced in her deals was her reward. The grace could be more than just a loan. No matter her angle, she was acting too suspicious for Sam’s liking.

“Sam,” Castiel called. Sam rubbed at his temple. A lack of sleep and the looming threat of the mother of all worries made a cocktail for a nasty migraine. It drilled into his skull without warning. “We will save Dean.” It did little to stifle the merciless throbbing at his brain, but Sam found comfort in Castiel’s motivation to find Dean. At least he was no longer alone.

“How is that going to go down, exactly?” he asked as he stood straight. He stumbled a moment and clutched the bridge of his nose. The throbbing traveled to his forehead and made its home between his eyes. He went to his bed and grabbed the suitcase from beneath it. As he rummaged through his bag for pills, he asked, “And when? She didn’t exactly give specifics.”

“Before she left, she gave me instructions,” Castiel answered. Sam went to the sink. He popped the pills in his mouth and guzzled water from the tap. “Sheila expects us at her borrowed residence so she may take us to her contact by sunset.”

Cue spit-take. _“Sunset?”_ Sam spat. Castiel nodded. Sam checked the time and groaned: sunset was in a little less than seven hours. Castiel murmured apologies as Sam wordlessly crawled into bed. “As if I’m not sleep deprived enough,” he grumbled. “You can borrow some of my pajamas in my suitcase, Cas. Let’s get as much sleep as we can.”

By the time Castiel slipped into bed, Sam’s mind was still racing. Playing through every scenario that could happen at Purgatory. In his mind, he made a list of weapons to bring based on which monsters he knew were in Purgatory – which was all of them, as Dean had once described – as well as any food, water, and possible sleeping equipment. Sheila said the cage in which Dean was held was in a deep part of Purgatory, and he doubted he would be taken to that exact location by the Reaper. On and on his mind went. 

As if he did not have enough keeping him from going to sleep, his phone began to ring.

 _I’m not getting sleep tonight,_ Sam thought with a defeated sigh.

The caller ID made his heart skip a beat, and he grabbed the key to the hotel room on his way out the door. As he went down the stairs, he cleared his throat and answered the call with a casual, “Hello?”

“Hey, Sam,” said Johanna with a timid voice. “Is this a bad time? I just – you said I could call whenever I needed to talk about everything that happened . . .”

“I’m listening.” Sam leaned against the door to the Impala. “I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, to be honest.” He shivered, but he did not want to bring any more attention to himself by retrieving a jacket, so he rubbed his arm with his free hand. “What’s on your mind?”

Johanna was the young girl who was possessed by Hazel, who, at the time, was the first newborn Legion demon Sam and Dean fought. Though it was Dean that was able to free her from possession, it was Sam who helped her understand what it was that possessed her. She ended up in the same hospital Sam was held in after he was dumped by both Sheila and Castiel, and he found her during one of his restless nightly wanders. She was just as sick and far more broken than Sam was from being possessed by Legion. She, too, had restless nights, so he stayed up with her and answered every question she had about demons, angels, and anything else that went bump in the night. Even after the two were healed enough to leave the hospital, Johanna called Sam every now and again to talk about her nightmares, her fears of demons, and to see how he was doing. Sam did not admit it to anyone but himself how much he liked having her call.

“I still feel like . . . like they’re just around the corner. Hiding behind a bush or a garbage bin. In my closet.” Johanna let out a sad, breathy laugh. “Sometimes I check under my bed just in case. I hear her whispers in my dreams – not all the time, but . . . ya know, often enough to make it hard to sleep some nights.” There was a moment of silence. “And that’s why I’m calling.” She let out a nervous titter. “I’ll just . . . I’ll just shut up now.” More forced laughter.

Sam let out a breathy laugh of his own and ran his fingers through his hair. “Johanna, you’re fine. I know it can get hard, having seen the things you’ve seen. Witnessing the supernatural. No matter how many times – it can take a toll on you. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, and I still have a hard time getting used to it.”

“I’m sure having your brother in the predicament he is in isn’t something you can get used to.” There was a sadness underlying her sarcasm. “Does it help, though? The fact that you know how to take care of this crap? You’re saving people and hunting – I don’t know – things” – _The family business,_ Sam thought sarcastically – “while I sit behind a counter and tell people where they can find a book. I can’t tell you how many times today I had to tell this dude that the science fiction books were in the _fiction_ section.” They both paused a moment to laugh. “Do you think . . . do you think it’d help _me_ if I became a – what do you call it? A hunter, like you?”

Sam had to tell it to her straight: “No, it would not. Trust me when I say that I would rather work at a boring library than lead the life that I do. Look at where all this supernatural crap got me and my brother.” 

“But at least you’re doing something with your life,” Johanna argued. “I can’t keep sitting here waiting for that demon to come to me.” She sighed deeply and loudly. “I wanna . . . I wanna get _her_ first.”

“Sure, killing Hazel for possessing you and leaving you bruised, broken, and scared would do _wonders_ for you, but that’s coming from a guy who was raised on the philosophy of, ‘Shoot first and ask questions later,’ from my obsessed father.” Sam sighed. The other end of the line was terribly silent. “You can still live your life, Johanna. Me?” Sam scoffed. He really wished he had another drink at that moment.

“Stop trying to hint,” Johanna answered slowly, “that what you’re doing isn’t _meaning_ something, Sam. You’re doing everything in your power to save your brother. And you will.” Sam’s heart swelled. “You’ll save your brother.”

Sam stared down at his feet, and though they were cold, his cheeks were warm; however, he was reminded of what was to happen in a few hours, and his stomach dropped down to meet the asphalt. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, last chapter for the night. I'm so tired! Hopefully I'll post the next one tomorrow! Thank you lovelies for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! :D


	13. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It began as a pinprick, a poisonous thorn driving through his back undetected. It drove itself deeper, and deeper still, and as it did, it became larger, fiercer, and hotter. White hot and furious. Poisoning him with a desperate longing. Dean began to sweat; he had to distract the beast; he had to keep it at bay.

Dean walked into the clearing and stared at the spot the portal ought to be. “Come on,” he urged. A breeze rustled the leaves in the woods ahead and blew dust up from beneath him. His flannel flapped with the wind coming from behind. Still, nothing happened.

A sudden and strong gust of wind made him stumble forward. He clutched his jacket tighter in his fist to keep it from being ripped from his grasp. “What the – ?”

A roar echoed around him as a gaping wound ripped through a break in the trees on the slope before him. It sucked in everything around it like a hungry black hole. The dust and dirt swirled up around him and made his eyes water. Dried leaves and small twigs stung his exposed skin like a small swarm of bees. The trees howled and creaked from behind him with the force of the beckoning. Dean shielded his eyes and gazed upon the wound. Despite his stinging eyes and the scrapes to his arms, he laughed.

“There you are.”

Before him was the human portal. All shades of blue and fiercely trying to suck whatever human was around and spit it back out into the real world. Dean took its opening as a sign he still registered as human and allowed the winds to propel him forward with a triumphant smile to his lips. The trees around the portal quivered, and the leaves swirled around it like a tornado. Everything was cast in a shadow of blues, dark and light and inviting. The closer he got, however, the more violent the howling was in his ears. Like a wolf singing to the moon, so the portal sang to the human.

He was face-to-face with the beast when it closed and opened again, as quickly as a heartbeat. A hard gust blew from within and knocked Dean on his back a few feet away. Were he human, he would have had the wind knocked out of him. Though he did not struggle to breathe, his diaphragm and lungs ached as if he did, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. He hoisted himself up to a sitting position with a groan and looked up at the portal through the storm of dust and debris it was kicking up.

“What’s your deal, huh?” he shouted over the whistling wind. “Piece of shit,” he mumbled as he struggled to his feet.

The portal continued to open and close, open and close; its blues faded and reappeared like strobe lights. With every open and close, the moan of the portal warbled. Dean approached it cautiously before a final blast of air thrust him onto his ass once more. The portal made a sucking sound and folded in on itself, and it did not reopen again.

The silence that followed was eerie. The portal’s wail was replaced by a ringing in Dean’s ears. He walked up to where the portal used to be with a chorus of dead leaves and twigs settling back into their place around him. There was still a breeze, but it was just that – a light caress, not the slap of the tornado from the portal. All that was left was the opening to the rest of the forest. The portal was gone.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asked the absence of the portal. He grabbed a nearby fist-sized rock and threw it at the empty spot and it crashed against a nearby tree. A gunshot in the silence. He punched his fist against air with a frustrated snarl and stomped his foot childishly. He willed the portal back, but when, predictably, nothing happened, he waved a dismissive hand at the empty space and turned his back. “Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, and he stomped away. In all honesty, he expected as much. The portal was a human portal after all, and seeing as his soul was a tortured and tainted version of what it once was, the chances of sliding through were slim. 

Instead of teleporting back to the waterfall, Dean decided he needed the walk to calm down and think of other escape plans. His ideal plan was to latch onto a human and ride them out; however, seeing as Purgatory was in short supply of humans, that plan would remain ideal and not realistic. The realistic and far less pleasant plan was taking the long route through Hell. Dean shuttered at the thought. By the time he got back to the waterfall, he had wished and willed for a human to show up that he did not realize the impossibly bright glow in the distance. It was when he reached down to the water to splash his face that he noticed its diamond-like glitter was not a reflection from the low-hanging sun. He looked up and shielded his eyes from the glow as it extended further over the crest of the waterfall. Within the next second, Dean teleported to the top of the falls, and found the light’s source miles and miles upriver in a place he walked through just days before. As the light grew, a wind rolled past the trees and towards him, and it carried with it a wave of debris. Dean thought, _Not again_ , as leaves and twigs slapped his arms and a mist kicked up from the river.

Dean recalled Benny’s description of the cage Dean rode in on: a bright ball of light that crashed down like a meteor from the sky. For a brief moment, Dean wondered if this was another victim of the cage coming to Purgatory. He discredited it immediately: this ball of light was not a comet from space, but rather a manifestation from something within Purgatory. It was also nowhere near the more hostile part of Purgatory Dean had been told the cage was to be upon its arrival. No, it was not an archangel trapped and doomed to live in the cage for the rest of its eternity. Dean could smell it in the air, taste it in the mist, feel it rising goose bumps on his flesh. Something else was visiting Purgatory. Something new.

A sound like a violin’s screech ringing from high a note to a low note resonated through the forest as the light got sucked back to its source. Dean looked around him in confused awe: the debris of dust and leaves and twigs blown up by the wind hung frozen in air. Even the mist kicked up from the river floated around him. The silence was so pure compared to the silence brought forth by the portal’s disappearance. _Looks like someone hit the pause button_ , Dean laughed to himself, but his laugh stopped short, for the sound was deafening in the silence. He reached out to touch a leaf frozen in air, but his steps sounded like fireworks in the unimaginable silence.

The river sang to Dean as it came back to life, and the debris floating in air rained down to the ground. Dean’s heart was in his throat with the sudden noise. He looked back to the treetops to find what happened to the light; it was so dull, he nearly missed it: approximately ten miles away, give or take, was the light, broken off into two little candle lights. The two new visitors sent a shiver through the forest. Far off to his left, somewhere downriver, a rugaru and a small pack of vampires ran hell-bent towards the lights. He decided to join them and teleported somewhere closer to the lights.

Upon his landing by the river, he stumbled, and the world around him spun. Though teleportation was now nearly as easy as blinking his eyes, it appeared his body was not used to traveling far. He shook off the dizziness, and as soon as the world stopped spinning, he saw the two figures surrounded by light run by. He scoffed and nodded his head. _Makes sense_ , he thought, recalling the way the forest seemed so off. It was why the two figures emitted light. _They’re human._

One of the humans stopped to tumble with a monster, and his companion turned around to help. Before Dean could see their faces, however, a whistle like a dropping bomb begged his attention. A comet of black whizzed past him and crash landed five feet from him, quickly followed by another. Black ooze bubbled from their craters before they rose and formed two human shapes. Two Leviathan glowered at Dean.

And he smiled, as if greeting old friends. “Haven’t seen you mooks in a while,” he said to them. He, of course, did not recognize them, but it had been days since he last saw a Leviathan. _No way they’d miss the chance to snack on some humans, he thought._

One of the Leviathan, a blond one, bared his teeth before he lunged at Dean. He did not give him an inch. Dean swung his blade immediately, and though the blond Leviathan ducked, Dean spun out of the way of the second’s grasp, and slashed at its throat. He heard the footsteps of the blond one while his female companion gurgled black goo and rolled out of the way. A drop of saliva dripped onto Dean’s neck, and when he regained his posture, he saw the female Leviathan’s rows of jagged teeth exposed, dripping with spittle. Dean took a moment to shiver and wipe at his neck with mumbles of how gross he felt. He smiled at the Leviathan and said, “No offense,” before he teleported behind her and decapitated her while she looked around in confusion. The blond Leviathan growled and flashed its rows of teeth.

“Other Leviathan,” it snarled, returning to normal, “are already hunting them.”

Dean blinked a couple times. The Leviathan, whom Dean decided to call   
Blondey, did not clarify, and Dean rolled his eyes “Hunting _who_ , asshat?” he asked flatly.

Blondey licked his lips. “The humans.”

Dean teleported behind Blondey and kicked him. He landed face-first in the gray-green earth, and when he rolled over, Dean was there to slam a foot to Blondey’s chest. He grinned down at the Leviathan and said, “Whoopty _fuckin’_ do,” before raising his blade.

“You should be more worried, Winchester,” Blondey coughed. Dean pressed the blade against the Leviathan’s throat, but he did not make another move. “You know these humans.” Dean’s stomach gave a lurch. There were only so few people whose safety with which a Leviathan would be threatening Dean. “You’ve slaughtered too many of our kin to let you go that easily. We shall devour yours to return the favor.”

Dean put more pressure on the blade, and a pearl of black goo bloomed from the tender skin of the Leviathan’s neck. “Not we,” Dean corrected. “You ain’t joinin’ ‘em, buddy.” A jolt ran up Dean’s arm with the impact of the blade slicing through the Leviathan’s neck. His head lolled to the side on the ground. Dean grabbed it by the scalp, and a trail of black go followed him as he tried to locate the humans.

They were not too far ahead; they still followed the length of the river, pursued by two vampires from the pack Dean saw earlier. (Where the other two were didn’t matter, for they would catch up quickly enough). The two humans tried to outrun the vampires in vain, and were forced to meet them head on in a crash and tumble in the underbrush.

It was there that he saw glimpses of their faces. One in particular was clear as day. “There you are, Sammy,” he chuckled.

His brother ducked out of the way of the vampire’s lunge and swung his blade with a surprising amount of grace for such a giant, six-foot-four sasquatch. Still, the vampire was all the more graceful, and significantly quicker, so on the two danced. What was particularly interesting, Dean found, was the barely-visible, wispy, sky blue ball of light housed at Sam’s core. A fuzzy memory of Sam being reunited with a similar ball of light surfaced from the recesses of Dean’s mind: he was staring at Sam’s soul, _only this time it’s attached_ , Dean joked. Other than the visual familiarity, the soul read familiar in other ways: it read _empathy, courage, tenacity_ . . . it read _Sam Winchester_. If all Dean were to see was the soul, he would still recognize it as Sammy. He laughed. _That will come in handy_ , Dean mused.

Sam’s companion was blocked by trees and Sam’s large figure as he pounced onto the vampire attacking said companion. Dean could, however, see a head of black, messy hair, and a rather large knife in his hands. His back was to Dean for most of the fight, but that did not keep him from viewing the delicate soul within. Dean had hoped he recognized it like he did Sam’s; Dean figured he had to know this mystery traveler, for Sam would not travel with anyone Dean did not also know; however, there was nothing recognizable. The soul read, among other things, _new_ and _curious_. Not familiar.

And then he became familiar.

The mystery traveler looked at Sam and the vampire and swiftly severed the head. Dean almost did not recognize him without the trench coat, but once he saw the square jaw and set mouth, everything else about the man became achingly familiar. Dean had not seen Castiel since he traded places with him in the archangel cage. Before Dean stood the angel for whom he had sacrificed himself.

It began as a pinprick, a poisonous thorn driving through his back undetected. It drove itself deeper, and deeper still, and as it did, it became larger, fiercer, and hotter. White hot and furious. Poisoning him with a desperate longing. Dean began to sweat; he had to distract the beast; he had to keep it at bay.

Castiel looked behind him and pointed off in the distance as Sam spun around like an idiot. Castiel said something Dean was too far away to hear. Castiel grabbed Sam’s jacket and tried to pull him forward. Castiel did this, Castiel did that. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel, the angel – 

Seeing Sam, who was very much human, had set the fuse to the plan Dean had laid. Seeing Castiel, however, was like dousing the fuse in water. But then Dean really looked at Castiel. Looked at his _soul_. His lack of wings. And then Dean laughed and let the fuse burn. He had never played chess before. Never was interested. He was too impatient and too brash for such a longsuffering game of braniacs. Seeing Sam and Castiel, he saw the chess board, and he decided, _Let’s play_. He teleported to a tree not too far from where his brother spun muttering something about the stream and where the portal to Hell lay. Castiel urged them to move. Dean smirked and threw the Leviathan head still clutched in his hands in their direction. He relished their looks of confusion and horror as the head rolled to look at them, and when the two searched for its source in a panic, Dean teleported ahead to watch them run. 

He made the first move. Now he waited for theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> [As Each End Looms and Subsides](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdz78NOLNp0) \- Red Sparowes
> 
> All right, Hiatus part 3 folks. I'm almost done with work for the summer, but with the end of summer comes school. I'll post when I can, y'all! In the meantime, thank you all so much for taking the time to read what I wrote, and don't be afraid to leave comments. You guys are amazing! :)


	14. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A twig snapped. Dead leaves wailed beneath a footstep. Castiel clutched his knife tightly in his hands and stood. Perhaps it was Sam; his three hours were nearly over. When Castiel turned around, however, he expected nothing less in the land of monsters: a shadow approached the light hesitantly, but stalked nonetheless. Castiel could see the ghost of a blade forged in the forest. It was walking too close to the tent for Castiel’s liking, and he, too, stalked forward with his knife ready and raised.

Purgatory showed no mercy.

Castiel set off at a run alongside Sam. He recognized the area from his last visit: this was vampire territory, filled with three small packs that occupied a wide area. The occasional rugaru roamed these parts, and with the distant growl, Castiel knew one had caught their scent. _Barely thirty seconds into our arrival_ , he thought, _and already we are being hunted._ He grabbed Sam, who lifted his blade, by the sleeve and pulled him forward. Fighting the rugaru meant spilling blood, and blood spilled in this territory would attract the vampires hidden in their nests. If they could avoid fighting any surrounding monsters, they would perhaps survive the trek through this territory.

“Cas,” Sam breathed, “if we don’t get rid of it –”

Castiel had not run so quickly in so long. His lungs, so underused, begged for oxygen. “If we do” – pause, breathe – “we shall bring forth – a pack – of vampires.” He looked at Sam to see that he understood. Sam’s mouth set in a stubborn line, and he looked back at the pursuing rugaru. “We are already – attracting monsters, Sam.” He gulped in an attempt to lubricate his dry throat, but it felt like swallowing sand. “We have to move.”

“Cas!” Sam shouted, and he leapt over a log.

Twigs cut across Castiel’s face as he fell forward, and dirt flew into his mouth. He coughed. The dirt tasted more metallic than earthy. A stinging scrape blossomed across the cheek that made contact with the earth. His knees ached with the impact, but he got up quickly when he heard the rugaru’s snarls coming closer. He pushed himself up and rolled to the side, and the rugaru’s momentum thrust him past Castiel. Sam was waiting for it. Instinct drove the blade across the rugaru’s neck; though it would not permanently kill it – fire was what killed a rugaru – it would stop its chase. Blood spattered across Sam’s chest from the arterial spray. The rugaru’s body dropped, and Sam stared apologetically at Castiel.

“Just run,” Castiel grunted, and he took off at a sprint. Sam caught up with thundering footsteps.

Adrenaline propelled them through the forest. Fear lead them through trees, weaving through them like needles, and the footsteps in pursuit were the trailing pieces of thread. Castiel looked behind him and saw two male vampires following them. Just as he predicted. These they would have to kill, lest they have them on their tail until they reach the cage.

“Meet them head on?” Sam huffed. Once Castiel nodded, Sam slowed to a walk before changing direction and charging at the vampires. Castiel, who was used to his wings for balance on such sudden twists, slipped on leaves underfoot. He did not embarrass himself as he did only a few moments ago; he caught himself and followed Sam, but he still felt the absence of his wings. Off kilter. Handicapped.

Sam grunted as he rolled out of the way of the vampire’s attack, barely missing its ravenous grasp. Castiel stopped and let the vampire targeting him charge. Though he was no longer an angel, the training he underwent since he was a fledgling was ingrained in his core. Though he did not have his wings to use as an extension of self, his finesse was unmatched. He spun out of the way of the vampire’s charge and struck, but the vampire snarled as it ducked out of the way. Castiel’s palm itched to reach out and smite the abomination. His shoulder felt the phantom pull of the joints of his wings, but there was nothing there. He would have used it to knock the vampire off its feet, but he had to improvise. He bobbed and weaved, ducked, swung his knife, knicked the vampire’s neck. The scent of its blood caught the attention of its companion, and Sam seized the moment with a final swing of his knife. Before Castiel could echo that beheading, the vampire moved impossibly fast, and he lunged at Castiel, overwhelming him. Sam leapt onto the vampire and wrapped an arm around its neck, yanking it off Castiel. He twisted its neck, and though it broke, he still pursued Castiel. With a swing, that pursuit ceased. Its head rolled to the ground and joined its companion.

The vampires lay dead at their feet. While Castiel caught his breath, Sam spun around, muttering to himself. “There’s that – and then the – but where’s the sun?” he panted, spinning around and around. Orienting himself. “The river is – and then we go – sun’s setting –”

Footsteps pounded somewhere in the distance. Growls echoed through the trees. Castiel followed the sound and saw two figures with long hair running for them. “Sam,” Castiel called.

“So then we – no, but – where did – ?” Sam continued his pant. Castiel said his name once again, but Sam only replied with, “Where’s the river? I think the portal to Hell is close, so we gotta –”

Castiel grabbed Sam’s sleeve and pulled. “This way, now _run_ , damn it.”

Something off to their left fumbled through the underbrush. Castiel thought he was seeing things – a trick of the sunlight, a casted shadow – until it stopped rolling and stared at them. Sam muttered obscenities and spun around to find the source while Castiel simply stared: a severed head of a blonde male with a gaping mouth and half-closed dead eyes lay before them, matted with debris against the stump of the neck oozing black goo. Leviathan. This told them two things, both of which made Castiel push Sam forward and sprint away: one, that Leviathan were nearby, and they were far hungrier than any vampires, werewolves, and rugarus chasing them; and two, that there was something out there strong enough to overpower a Leviathan. Something that wanted Sam and Castiel to know its strength. Castiel was no less running away from it than the vampires, both of which were rapidly catching up.

Castiel and Sam were soon caught by the two female vampires, but they were able to behead them after a tough fight. Not long after the vampires, they met a separate one farther up, and since it was alone it was easy to take down. Farther they ran. They were approaching the end of the vampires’ territory and the start of the neutral zone. Shape shifters and the occasional wandering werewolf passed through, but nothing ever stayed put for long in that area. 

As night fell, Castiel and Sam slowed to a walk alongside the river. Castiel knew, from his time in Purgatory, staying out of sight and fleeing farther from Dean, that the riverside was the safest, especially in the neutral territory. They found the portal to Hell when the moon found its midnight perch. Sam, however, did not want to stop. 

“The shrine of Eve is five miles east,” he whispered. Though there was no need to whisper, the darkness felt alive. Anything could be listening. “I say we keep walking and then make camp by the shrine.” Castiel squinted, thinking of how close the neutral zone was, and how active vampires became at night. If it would be safe. Sam took it as a no, and took a deep breath. “Cas, come on,” he breathed. “I want this over as soon as possible.”

“I do, too,” Castiel whispered. He dug into the backpack slung on his back and found a canteen of water. “We restock and head to the shrine.” Sam nodded.

Castiel lead the way to the stream with slow, cautious steps, with Sam close at his heels, watching behind them. Though a lone vampire decided to attack, they quickly decapitated it and ran before others could come investigate. After a mile of slow jogging, they walked. Purgatory’s moon shined less than Earth’s, as if it were dying; the stars, however, were numerous, and though they did not shined bright, their numbers created a sea of candlelight in the relatively silent night. Were they not already producing enough sound with the crunch of dead leaves beneath their boots, the two men would have spoken. 

And they were not alone in the forest.

The Leviathan’s head from their arrival was a precursor to the screams and squish of a severed head that echoed through the night. Castiel and Sam were surrounded by the final groans, grunts, screams, and gurgles of death. Whatever had killed the Leviathan before, whatever decided to show them the head, was following the two men as they roamed. At first, Castiel believed that this mystery killer was attempting to intimidate them. There were times that footsteps pounded towards them, and Castiel raised his knife in defense, but the footsteps were cut off immediately, and a death scream would quickly replace the footsteps. After the second time that scenario happened, Castiel and Sam shared a look, and Sam nodded in agreement. The killer may, in fact, be a protector. As long as it kept most of the monsters away, Castiel would not worry about it until after they found Dean.

The Shrine of Eve was a monument of wood: slim branches intertwined to make a jagged crown in which one could stand. Surrounding it were pillars of stone that came to Castiel’s waist. Although some stones were missing, it was relatively untouched and undisturbed. Very little traction surrounded the area, though it was bordering the vampires’ territory. Perhaps it was sacred. Perhaps it was forgotten. Castiel decided it was safe enough to make camp nearby. With what little sleep they had before their arrival and the exhaustion they experienced upon their arrival, they needed to make camp.

Sam knelt down with a quick gaze around the forest and shivered. He pulled from his backpack a fire-starting kit. “Can I even make a fire?” he asked in a hushed voice. “What did Dean do through the nights?” He shivered again, and Castiel rubbed his arms. He had never realized how cold Purgatory could be. The needle-like cold breeze brushed against his exposed skin.

“Before I traveled with him,” Castiel began, “he said he and Benny took turns keeping watch: Dean during the day while Benny slept, and Benny during the night when he needn’t sleep. They never slept too long in one sitting. When I was with them there was no need for either of them to keep watch, for I did not need sleep. Sometimes Dean stayed up with me.”

Sam finished pulling out the tent. “So . . . no fire, take turns keeping watch?”

Castiel chuckled. “We can have a fire.” Sam did not hesitate to start it, and began to clear a pit. “I’m sure whatever came our way would have to go through our mystery traveling partner first.”

A small fire blossomed in the pit. “That’s not entirely comforting, to be honest,” Sam muttered. Castiel nodded and scanned the trees. The orange glow casted flickering shadows upon the thick trunks, but none of the shadows were of human form, and no eyes reflected in the darkness. They were safe enough for now to allow sleep, and though Sam argued, they agreed Castiel would have the first night’s watch. In three hours, he would awaken Sam and pretend to sleep.

The fire, although warm, produced faint shadows that moved and sent shivers up Castiel’s spine. The darkness was at his back, and the light was before him, but even if he switched, he still felt fear. Were he still an angel, he would retreat to the trees as he did before, and would curl into his wings for concealment. He would be able to watch over Sam from above like a proper angel. Then again, he would be bringing forth every monster for miles, and Sam would be in more danger than in Castiel’s protection. Fearing solely for his human companion rather than fearing for himself as well as Sam. 

How strange it was to feel so vulnerable and small. How strange it was to feel the phantom of his wings looming over him. When he fought he felt blood pumping through his pounding heart rather than fiery celestial magic coursing through his limbs. He felt every scrape on his cheek, every muscle cramping with exertion, and every heave of his lungs. Castiel sat closer to the fire and stuck his hand out to the flame. He felt its warmth. He felt the slight burn. Were he crazed enough, he could extend his arm further and allow a flame to lick his fingers and leave burns and blisters that he could not heal on his own. 

He was always so curious about humanity. Their pain and blood. Their denial of consequences and hunger for reward. Their hesitance or their impulsiveness. Their longings and aches. Their sorrows and burdens. Castiel had surely _felt_ as an angel – the loss of angels that fought alongside him, Gabriel’s disappearance, the absence of God’s voice. It was not until he walked amongst humans – and not just observed them, but took on a vessel and truly walked with them – that Castiel ached to feel what they felt, and then ached for it to be taken away. Being chosen to raise Dean from perdition was the spark of longing that Dean himself blew into a flame. Now, as an actual human, Castiel did not know what he wanted more: to stay human or to become an angel once more – or rather the hybrid angel he had become. He had absorbed so much of humanity he might never truly be an angel.

A twig snapped. Dead leaves wailed beneath a footstep. Castiel clutched his knife tightly in his hands and stood. Perhaps it was Sam; his three hours were nearly over. When Castiel turned around, however, he expected nothing less in the land of monsters: a shadow approached the light hesitantly, but stalked nonetheless. Castiel could see the ghost of a blade forged in the forest. It was walking too close to the tent for Castiel’s liking, and he, too, stalked forward with his knife ready and raised.

The fire’s glow reached the intruder’s feet. Worn boots. Tattered, dirt-caked jeans. The orange-yellow firelight extended up the torso and to the face, but Castiel ceased his approach upon seeing the legs. The bowlegs. His eyes trailed up and he stopped breathing, and though his lungs begged for air, he could not give it. Even bathed in Purgatory’s gore and grime, Castiel knew that face. The figure’s eyes were wide, and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Sam came out of his tent. From the corner of Castiel’s eyes, he saw Sam follow his gaze, and the man stumbled to his feet. He did what Castiel could not and named the figure: _“Dean.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:
> 
> [Tornado](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Pc2A66m7Zg) \- Jonsi
> 
> Hiatus is over! I'm done with my summer job (cries 5evr) and have moved into my dorm! I still won't be posting on a regular weekly or every-other-weekly basis, but I won't have month long absences like before. Hope you guys are enjoying! Thanks for taking the time to read, as always, and thanks for all your support. Don't be afraid to share your thoughts in the comments! <3 You are all wonderful!!!


	15. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jesus, do we really do the prolonged eye-contact thing?_ Dean asked himself as he rolled up his flannel’s sleeve, revealing the vulnerable skin beneath. _Fuck, I didn’t know we were that obvious._

Feigned cautious steps. Debris purposefully crunched beneath boots to scare Castiel. He stood slowly and turned with rather large knife in hand. Dean continued his saunter, stepping into the fire’s glow, passing the tent in which Sam slept. Recognition passed Castiel’s face, and the pure look of surprise mixed with that of fear-fueled confusion. Whatever they had come here to find, Dean assumed him as he was must not have been it. Luckily for Dean, Castiel was more human than Dean himself was, and thus could not see his demonized soul. So far, everything was working out as Dean hoped.

Except for the inability to speak upon seeing Castiel and those sad, tired baby blues. Dean opened his mouth to say “Hello,” or, “’Sup, Cas?” or, “Ain’t Purgatory a bitch?” but found his throat constricted and chest tight. He instead looked like a blubbering fish, opening and closing his mouth with nothing to say. _This is going to be a problem_ , Dean thought, and he opted to gulp instead. At least it added to the performance (one that was, unfortunately, becoming less so with each step).

Sam emerged from the tent, and Dean ripped his eyes away from Castiel. Sam followed Castiel’s gaze and found Dean. Though he, too, looked surprise and gasped, _“Dean,”_ his defenses quickly went up, and a scowl replaced his shock.

Dean cleared his throat. “You look worried, fellas,” he jested, and he smiled to break the ice. He took a cautious step forward, measuring Sam’s reaction. When Sam did not take a defensive stance, Dean decided to keep moving forward, and reassured them, “It’s me, guys. It really is.”

“But how?” Castiel asked. He, too, took a step forward. He looked Dean over. Dean resisted the urge to peacock and stand taller, puff out his chest, and act like the marvel Castiel was regarding him as. The former angel stood only inches from Dean, as per the usual. 

“Yes, Dean, tell us _how_ ,” Sam growled. He stomped forward and pulled Cas back by the arm to get between him and his brother. Dean did not know if he was relieved or disappointed. His roiling stomach made it hard to discern whether he wanted to play his original card with Castiel, or if it was going to end badly for himself if he did. 

“We’ll test you while you talk,” Sam added. He turned around and went to the tent. 

Dean gulped. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s me,” he called. He did not expect having to use the Sammy card so early, but if Sam pulled out the holy water, he was fucked. 

A second later, Sam came out of the tent with a silver knife and – _Yeah, I’m fucked_ – a canteen of holy water. Dean had to resist backing away, as that in itself would reveal him.

“If you _are_ Dean,” Sam snarled, “then you know we have to test you.” He scoffed. “We’ve done it every time you’ve come back from the dead, haven’t we? Should be expected by now.”

_Crap_ , Dean thought. He totally forgot. He looked at Cas and hoped it looked like he was desperate to be believed, not desperate to not be revealed. Castiel took the bait and grabbed the knife from Sam. Sam looked a little skeptical, but allowed Cas to take the knife, and watched Dean like a hawk. Knowing this, Dean looked at Cas with his best impression of Sam’s puppy dog eyes, hoping he oozed a convincing enough lover’s reunion. Castiel was already playing that part: as he walked forward, his tired baby blues never left Dean’s, even as Dean took off a sleeve of his jacket. _Jesus, do we really do the prolonged eye-contact thing?_ Dean asked himself as he rolled up his flannel’s sleeve, revealing the vulnerable skin beneath. _Fuck, I didn’t know we were that obvious._ A constellation of scars collected over years of hunting and testing for monster-status littered his forearm. 

Neither Castiel nor Dean looked away from the other as Castiel gently grabbed Dean’s wrist. An explosion of heat blossomed at the contact, and Dean held back a gasp. He held Castiel’s gaze and hoped the man could not read the panic in his face. What the hell? Dean cursed. Castiel placed the flat of the knife against Dean’s exposed skin and let out a sigh of relief when Dean’s skin did not sizzle. With an upturned brow, Dean smiled down at Cas and said, “See? It’s all me, Cas.” _Now stop touching me_ , he begged silently. The fire was crawling up his arm and going to his face, trailing down his neck, setting his chest on fire. Would the knife return to his gut, twisting and gutting with a vengeance? Would he collapse as his bones broke and his veins braided into a knot?  


“I still need to know,” Cas said with his gruff voice. “How did you get out?”

Dean chuckled. “It’s a long story.”

“One I’m willing to hear,” Sam interjected, and Castiel and Dean both jumped, “after the holy water.”

“Sammy,” Dean protested with an honest to God hitch to his voice. He licked his lips to keep himself from laughing. He had to remember that Sam was threatening holy water. Dean gazed at his brother with a sorrowful stare and added, “It’s _me_ , Sammy.” _Laying it on thick, aren’t you?_ Dean kidded with himself.

He felt his skin grow hot with sweat as Sam unscrewed the cap to the holy water. Any hint of laughter left in his gut receded into a greasy worry. If he panicked, he might as well write _DEMON_ on his forehead in permanent marker. He had to act normal, perhaps look offended that Sam was not jumping on the _Dean’s Alive_ bandwagon as eagerly as Castiel. As Dean followed Sam and Castiel throughout the day, he kept everything that hunted his brother and graceless angel at bay. He was going to use that fact to get them to trust him more; however, it was going to be all for naught if any of that holy water touched Dean. He needed them to believe wholeheartedly that it was him up until they got to the human portal. That was when Dean could finally get out – and if they didn’t willingly allow him to ride piggy-back out, then he would force them to carry him out. Dean _needed_ to get out, and if he could see the look of utter betrayal on both Sam’s and Castiel’s faces before they left Purgatory, that was just an extra bonus. Dean started a game he wanted to see finished with him riding out of Purgatory on either Sam or Castiel via binding spell. That could not happen if they did not trust him now.

Sam came closer to Dean, close enough that he saw the constellation of scars on Dean’s forearm, the same constellation on Sam’s exposed arms. Dean willed his brother to believe based on that fact alone. Instead, Sam lifted up the canteen and began to tip it. Dean prayed to God – _who do demons pray to? Lucifer?_ – for a wendigo, a vampire, werewolf, Leviathan, anything. He needed a miracle.

A whistle like a falling bomb filled the early morning air, and all three men looked towards the sky. Dean pulled his arm away immediately and played it off by stepping between Castiel and whatever was hurdling towards them. A meteor crashed in the fire and a goopy blob formed into a human shape, soon followed by another meteor crashing to the earth a few feet away. While Sam and Castiel scrambled for their weapons, Dean had to hold back the urge to blow the Leviathan as reward for picking the perfect moment to attack. He thanked the all mighty Lucifer as he lobbed the head off of the nearest Leviathan just as another crashed into the tent. Sam and Castiel flung their backpacks over their shoulders and began to attack the Leviathan, but another two crash landed. Dean knew he could decapitate every single one of them, but considering the act he had to keep up, he decided to leave the Leviathan behind.

He grabbed Castiel’s hand and began to pull him away. It was like grabbing hold of the wrong end of a branding iron, but Dean had to hold on. Castiel looked down at their intertwined fingers as Dean told Sam, “Just run.”

Sam dodged the greedy grab from a Leviathan and looked past them thoughtfully, eyes distant, mind obviously on something other than the Leviathan. Dean followed his brother’s gaze and found a formation of wood and rocks. Sam shouted, “This way!” and took off towards the sunrise. Dean pulled Castiel out of the way of a Leviathan’s lunge and let go of the former angel’s hand as they ran through the underbrush. Sam started to curve northbound. Dean mirrored Sam’s pace and found his brother staring at him expectantly. Dean looked out at the path Sam was taking them and found that the surrounding forest was all too familiar. Dean knew _exactly_ where Sam was taking them, and he exchanged a look with his brother. Sam was waiting for a response, and to buy some time, Dean looked back worriedly at Castiel and the pursuing Leviathan. An incorrect response would only increase Sam’s suspicions: if Dean feigned ignorance, he would have to continue that act upon their arrival to the crater, and Dean did not have a cover story for such ignorance. Dean decided he did not have to pretend he did not know; the choice instead was whether he looked haunted or not by that fact. Dean’s choice was easy. With an upturned brow and waves of grief aimed at Sam, Dean gave a curt nod, and kept his eyes ahead. Perhaps if Sam knew that the crater was a place of demons and haunted memories for Dean, he would turn around and head for the portal. Sam was empathetic enough that forcing Dean to relive something traumatic would force him to change his course.

Sam looked ahead at their path not with worry, but rather with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. He even picked up his pace. Dean wanted to curse. The Leviathan were no more than a prinprick in Dean’s side compared to the thorn on the sole of his foot that was trying to convince Sam. _Playing chess is a lot harder than I thought_ , Dean grudgingly thought.

The closer the three men came to the crater, the slower the Leviathan became. They came to a halt and vanished when the fallen, vaporized trees were a distant sight, about a mile or two away. Why they ceased their pursuit was unknown to Dean. His instincts told him it was something to do with the cage; his ego told him it was because they realized they could not stand against one so powerful as he. 

Dean was the first to slow down his jog to a walk, followed quickly by Castiel. Sam stayed behind to watch Dean. The hunter’s instinct: keep the threat in your line of sight, never behind you. Though it was an inconvenience, and Dean had to stay on alert constantly, having Castiel near made it easier, for Castiel kept the performance alive. Dean purposefully brushed his hand against Castiel’s and bashfully looked away when Castiel caught him obviously staring. He grinned at Castiel when he, too, was caught staring. All the while, the churning of Dean’s stomach was bordering on unbearable. The headache was a constant ringing of a bell that he knew would soon evolve into a clanging gong. Every touch was like a branding from an iron fresh from the fire. It was necessary to ease Sam into the trick and to keep Castiel blindsided with the lover’s reunion.

Soon the dawn was upon them. With the dim gleam of the rising sun, the dark grays of the forest became light grays and greens and browns; through the break in the trees, rays of pale yellow light shone, casting warmth upon Dean’s exposed skin. A minor tingle joined the warmth, a static blanket over his exposed skin. When Dean inhaled, the air smelled damp, tasted metallic and slightly electric. A residual energy left over from the cage, he surmised. In the not so far off distance, the fallen trees and gaping mouth of the crater beckoned them forward, illuminated by the rising sun.

An absence of footsteps made Dean pause. He turned around to find Sam standing still and staring out at the break in the trees. After a moment, his eyes shifted to Dean’s. “What are we going to find?” Sam asked. His glare was sharp enough to cut Dean in half.

Dean looked out to the crater again. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. The moment he was spit out from the cage, he was running from it. The residual energy only meant that a hint of it was left behind, and that it was fading. He doubt the cage was still visible, and so he told Sam, “I doubt we are going to find anything.”

Sam looked out at the crater. Silent. Thinking. Eventually he ordered, “Come on.” He waited for Dean to start walking. Keeping the threat in front of him.

The static in the air became thicker the closer they came to the crater, progressing from a blanket to a cloud. When they stood on the edge of the desolate basin, the electricity became almost palpable. With every movement, a crackle of static followed, though small. Sam did not seem to notice; Castiel, however, jumped at a shock. Being a former angel must have made him more in tune to the supernatural, and for that Dean was grateful. It allowed him an excuse to visibly react. Castiel was beginning to notice that Dean was reacting as well, and they shared an exchange.

Dean walked to the center of the crater. This was where he was trapped. This was where he was human last. In his mind’s eye, he reminisced: the heat of his fake Hell, the _Novocain Days_ and _Raw Meat Days_ of torture, Alistair’s taunts. Dean could still smell the sulfur clinging to the air like a swarm of flies. He remembered the white walls and white floors and the elegant mirror that revealed his new self. He remembered a fake Castiel, a product of his tortured nightmares, ripping out the charred stinking heap of flesh that was Dean’s demonized heart. Dean looked over at Castiel, who was examining a splash of dried black blood upon a nearby boulder, accompanied by the ragged remains of a Leviathan’s head. Sam was somewhere behind Dean kicking over a headless, decaying body.

Castiel met Dean’s eyes. A novel of sorrow was in the man’s eyes, and Dean resisted the urge to roll his own. Still, the ringing bell of a headache turned into a gong in his brain, as promised. The knife in his gut slowly twisted. Stirring his insides slowly like a stew.

For the third time that morning, Castiel asked, “How?” Dean answered with only a stare, one which Castiel returned with one of his own. “How did you survive?” There was no malice in his tone, only awe. _Any disbelief?_ Dean wondered.

Sam stomped over to Dean. “There are too many Leviathan bodies here, Dean. Too many for just one person to take on.” He turned the large knife over in his hands. “What. The hell. Happened.”

Something in Sam snapped in the time Dean was gone. The empathy was replaced with a skepticism hungry for proof. Whatever it was that had changed Sam, Dean knew any explanation he provided would only raise further questions from his brother. Hell, anything Dean said, Sam would question. Castiel regarded Dean’s survival as if it were a miracle; Sam regarded it as ambiguous. It was obvious to whom Dean would have to tell his story.

He turned to Cas with an upturned brow and a deep inhale. He scanned the crater, the bodies that lay scattered around it, and exhaled. It was far too easy to slip into the wounded soldier persona where emotions were buried deep; the mask of Daddy’s Little Soldier slid into the worn grooves and fit like a glove.  
He met Castiel’s baby blues and began his tale: “The cage wanted to make my torture personal, so it put me back in Hell with Alistair.” Castiel gave his signature eye squint and head tilt. “I don’t know how long I was in there, but it felt like years.” Dean took slow steps towards the former angel, leaving Sam at his back. “It was hard to tell what was real and what was fake. The two thoughts that kept me sane were you” – he looked over his shoulder at Sam, who looked torn between worry and indifference – “and family.” Dean continued his pursuit on Castiel. He was within arm’s reach. “It got so bad that I couldn’t snap out of it, and everything felt real – I thought I was really in Hell, and that I was going to stay there forever.”

Dean reached a hesitant hand out to Castiel. It was not fake; the quiver to Dean’s hand as he grasped Castiel’s arm was, regrettably, real, but Dean forced himself to touch the former angel. He brought his hand to cup the crook of Castiel’s neck, just below the jawline. It was like touching the burner turned on high. “But then I kept thinking of you.” Without thinking, Dean pressed his forehead against Castiel’s. “Reminding myself that what I did was for you.” The gong in his mind became a jackhammer. Everything was Castiel’s tired, sad baby blues, hooded beneath heavy lids. Parted chapped lips.

An alarm thundered in Dean’s mind, shouting, _Abort mission, abort mission!_

“And then the cage reminded me how ridiculous that was,” Dean added without thinking, “and I crawled out of there” – he blinked, and a _click_ followed as his eyes turned black – “all shiny and new.” He relished the look on Castiel’s face – wide-eyed and disbelieving – and gripped his throat tight in fists of steel. Castiel wheezed.

Sam called for Castiel’s name, but before he could save him, Dean pointed his blade at his brother. He imagined chains holding Sam in place, shackles on his wrists. Sam fell to his knees and did not stand, and Dean laughed at the success of his telekinesis. Sam grunted in his attempts to move, grunts that quickly turned to snarled curses. Dean laughed harder at his brother’s attempts to free himself. 

Castiel sputtered in Dean’s hands. “Not to toot my own horn, but,” Dean said, and he blinked his eyes back to normal, “I’m going to toot my own horn: _damn_ I am good!” Dean laughed and threw Castiel to the ground. The former angel, once strong enough to resist a punch straight to the face from Dean, coughed and wheezed as he struggled for air. “I should become an actor, I really should. Maybe I can go back to that weirdo fake universe – you know, the one with the fake me? Sammy, what was my fake name? Something like _Snackles?_ ” Dean pretended to think a moment, kicking Castiel down when he attempted to stand. He snapped his fingers and pointed his blade at Sam again. “ _Ackles_ , that’s what it was! Man, everyone would be impressed if I went back.”

“You’re not Dean,” Sam stubbornly argued. “You’re a stinking, lowly _demon!_ ” He pulled at the invisible chains with an animalistic snarl. Dean rolled his eyes. _“Get out of my brother!”_

Castiel breathed heavily as he got to his knees again, and Dean swung the blade towards the former angel’s neck, but stayed it before it could make contact. A warning: stand, and you’ll be headless. He had to establish this dominance now that he had skipped all the formalities and niceties and went straight to the betrayal out of panic. Castiel stopped breathing for a moment and stared up at Dean with those sad baby blues. Dean could not look long and shut his eyes tight at the throbbing headache. He had to remain in control of his outbursts. The game of chess was not over yet.

So he looked at Sam instead. “I wasn’t lying, Sammy: it really is me. No demon in here but my own.” Dean blinked again. He _loved_ the look of disgust mixed with fear on his brother’s face far too much. 

Sam sat panting, thinking, eyes wide and sad, brow furrowed. He looked between Castiel and Dean at the blade, and licked his lips. “We can save you, Dean,” Sam breathed. “We came here to save you.” 

Dean smiled. _How quaint_ , he thought. He opened his mouth to reply with something witty and walked towards Sam. He stopped in his tracks when Castiel said, “Let us help you,” in huskier voice than usual. He coughed.

Dean did not look at the former angel. His blood boiled, the gong in his head banged louder. He had the urge to knock Castiel to the ground again. So he did, looking at Sam all the while. The white-hot knife returned, and it twisted in his gut; an invisible hand reached for his heart and gripped it tight before squeezing it. Where before he was going to reply in a smarmy tone, he growled, “You can help me, all right,” and turned around to grab Castiel’s arm none too gently.

_“No,”_ Sam protested not in fear, but as though he were scolding a child. “Not the way you are right now.”

“Sammy,” Dean responded, and he looked at his brother with black eyes, “you’re not really in the position to be callin’ the shots.” He yanked Castiel to his feet. The skin that was touching Castiel was on fire. “Besides, Castiel graciously offered help, so I’m going to take it.” He placed the sharp point of the blade against Castiel’s skin, but did not slice. “Once we get topside, I will leave – no fuss, no mess, I’ll just take off and I will leave you two alone.” He blinked, and a _click_ signified his eyes returning to their original green. Sam stared with a stubborn purse to his lips. “But if you two hunt me down . . .” Dean paused, and he swiftly made a knick on Castiel’s forearm. Castiel hissed as blood pooled faintly at the wound. “I will end you.”

Sam looked from Dean to Castiel with frantic eyes. Dean let up on the invisible chains he put on Sam and sliced at his own forearm. Sam stood and interrupted: “If you’re gonna ride anyone outta here, it’s gonne be me.”

Dean chuckled. “You know you’re just giving fuel to those freaky little slash fans, right?” Sam did not laugh; instead, he rolled up his sleeve and held his arm out for Dean. Dean sighed. “Whatever makes you feel better.” Dean paused a moment, and then he grinned crookedly. “Oh, and if you try anything, Cas here isn’t going to leave here in one piece.” Dean grabbed Castiel by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Sam reacted and reached out to help on instinct. Castiel wheezed and clawed at Dean’s hands. Dean felt that his warning had reached Sam loud and clear, and he threw Castiel down to the ground a few feet away. Castiel coughed and groaned on impact, rolling around in the leaves and dirt as he got to his knees.

Dean walked over to Sam and grabbed his arm. “You’re a dick,” Sam said under his breath. “You know that?”

“I’ve always been a dick, Sammy,” Dean sighed. He cut a crimson line into Sam’s forearm. Another scar to join the others.

“No,” Sam argued, and he hissed as the blood pooled. “Not to us, Dean. This isn’t you. You can’t actually want this.” Dean looked up at Sam. The existential pain in his gut made his stomach lurch. He knew he should not be listening to his brother, but he could not help himself. “If you won’t let me help you, then maybe . . . maybe Cas can.” Dean’s eyes turned black with the instinctual fear and anger. Sam, unfortunately, caught on. “There’s something _there_ , Dean, which is why the cage worked. Maybe that something had the power to get you out of the cage. Maybe it can cure you.”

“And what if I don’t wanna be cured?” Dean responded. His eyes became green once again with a _click_.

Sam looked like Dean punched him in the gut. Dean ignored the oily feeling of guilt dripping down his throat and into his stomach. He thought his tussle with Benny was the end of that greasy cesspool of guilt making home in his stomach, but it was still there, resting, waiting. Mixed with the lingering fire left by Castiel’s touch, the boiling and the white-hot, gut-wrenching knife in his gut, a cocktail of disaster was brewing. The gong in his head was getting louder. His “Leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone” terms were made not only because he did not want their annoyance, but because being around the two of them was worse than being around Benny. Whereas Benny’s interaction was like a firecracker of pain, the soul-deep agony brought by these two was like a volcano waiting to erupt. The explosion was something Dean wanted to avoid.

Dean gripped Sam’s arm and asked, “You know the spell?” Sam nodded. “Then say it.”

As Sam finished casting the binding spell, Dean melted. Being the one bound rather than the one casting the binding spell was an entirely different experience. He felt liquefied. There was a flash of unbearable fire, and then it was as though his skin was ripped from his bones. He felt halved. Numb. In a flash, it was done, and he was stuck in limbo once more. This time, however, he knew he was getting out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for chapter:  
> [Something Disposable](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4eU5xSMno3w) \- Gone Girl  
> [The Family Business/ Elegy for John](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkdwRC7-TIw) \- Supernatural Score
> 
> Not much to say except thanks a billion for taking the time to read! I hope you all are enjoying it!


	16. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well you’re his . . . ya know.” Sam shrugged. The implications were there, but even he could not put a label on something Dean and Castiel had not been able to do in years. Now that it was all _extra_ complicated, Sam just let the abstruseness float in the air between them.

Sheila said the binding spell would hurt, but she failed to mention to Sam that it would feel as though he shot lava into his veins as one shoots up heroin. Sam grunted in pain and cradled his arm to his chest. It burned so hot he closed his eyes and ducked his head; it burned like he roasted his forearm over a bonfire. As he rode out the pain, he opened his eyes and looked upon the result of the binding spell: churning beneath his skin was red-orange magma. It did not move from his arm; it stayed in one place, boiling and bubbling. Sam felt infected. He looked at Castiel to see if he, too, could see what was under Sam’s skin, but it was forgotten when he saw the body lying at Castiel’s feet.

For a moment, Sam panicked – Dean’s lifeless corpse was before him – but he swallowed it. Sheila had warned him that they would have to transport Dean in unconventional matters if they found him, but she did not specify how. She gave a variety of different scenarios: if Dean was found still trapped in the cage, exit via the spell for bringing the cage back to the human world. If Dean was not in the cage, three things could happen: either he was dead, and Sam could choose to bring back the body or to leave it; or Dean was alive, and the three men could exit Purgatory using the human portal; or, in the worst case, Sheila said Dean would have to be transported out of Purgatory using the binding spell, but she did not explain why it was the worst case. After hearing that option, Sam had been wary, antsy, going through all the possibilities of _worst case_ his mind could conjure. When Dean suddenly appeared, any hint of brotherly affection that normally overcame him on the various occasions that Dean returned from the dead vanished. He embraced his suspicion.

It was a good thing he did.

_Still didn’t do you any good_ , Sam bitterly thought. He walked over to the body and stared down his brother’s lifeless face. He looked down at his arm and hissed at the movement. Every movement of his arm had a burn that felt like he accidentally touched the stove when it was on high. He looked at Dean again. The binding spell had bound Dean’s soul to Sam, which was not what Sam expected at all; instead, he expected a binding spell to bind the two together, so that wherever one went, the other had to follow – _physically_. Not _spiritually_. The body lying before him was but a shell of Dean. A throbbing ache began to pulse behind Sam’s eyes, and he rubbed at them.

“We can’t carry him back to the human portal,” Sam said. He opened his eyes. Castiel was bandaging the cut Dean had made on his forearm. “We’re going to have to do that cage-moving ritual.” Sam sighed. “Hopefully it works without the cage.”

“It ought to,” Castiel muttered. He met Sam’s eyes, and Sam tried not to flinch. There were little round bruises already forming on his neck, and there were scrapes and cuts at his face. A swollen cut and a bruise beneath his eye. 

Sam pulled his pack off his shoulders and rummaged through it to find the herbs Sheila gave him to start the ritual. He walked around to Dean’s head and pointed at his feet. “You grab that end, I’ll grab this one. Let’s drag him to the center.”

After they dragged Dean, Sam took a moment to ride out the pain in his arm. _Even without a body_ , Sam thought, _Dean’s a pain in my ass_. After a few deep breaths, Sam started on the ritual and drew a large circle around the three of them, which needed a triangle to their right and left and small circles in front and behind. As he drew the first triangle, Sam peeked over at Castiel, whom he told to sit down despite his eagerness to help. The angel – _not angel_ – sat with crossed legs beside Dean, whom the _(former)_ angel watched as though he were going to get up and move. Sam could not tell if it was out of caution or if it was due to longing. Castiel moved Dean’s head around to check for injuries, but when he ran gentle fingers through Dean’s hair, Sam blushed and looked away, feeling embarrassed at having seen such a tender moment. Again.

After the Leviathan had ceased their pursuit, before the three men reached the crater, Sam had kept Dean in front just in case. If his suspicions about Dean were true, he did not want to be caught from behind. Still, he had taken his eyes off of his brother and Castiel more than once, as the two had replaced their prolonged eye contact and stares of longing to the new level of brushing hands and bashfully smiling at one another. Feeling like the third wheel in Purgatory was on Sam’s list of _Oddest Situations_.

At first, Sam could not understand why Castiel was blinded by the joy at finding Dean. While they walked to the crater, Sam found he could not blame Castiel for being so blind-sided – he gave up his grace just on the hope they would find remnants of Dean. Finding Dean alive must have made giving away angel grace worth it. _And then Dean bullied the crap out of him_ , Sam thought as he drew the last small circle, completing the first part of the ritual.

As he laid out the herbs, he asked Castiel, “How’re you holding up?”

Castiel chuckled. “I ought to be asking you that question. You’re his brother.”

“Well you’re his . . . ya know.” Sam shrugged. The implications were there, but even he could not put a label on something Dean and Castiel had not been able to do in years. Now that it was all _extra_ complicated, Sam just let the abstruseness float in the air between them.

“I actually don’t know,” Castiel admitted. He looked down at Dean and idly scratched at the scabs forming at his cut up arm. With an upturned brow, Sam looked away. Cas would not want to be so visibly pitied.

Sam laid out the herbs, checking over the list of instructions Sheila gave him. As he did so, he could not help but think back at Dean’s reactions to Castiel compared to his reactions to Sam. Dean had no trouble cozying up to Castiel up until the moment he revealed his new demonic self – something Sam still had trouble wrapping his head around. Every explanation, every plea to be believed was relayed to Castiel because he was obviously more willing to believe than Sam. But the moment Dean stopped the act, he was throwing Castiel around like a ragdoll. Most notable was the fact he did not look at Castiel unless necessary, and even then he tore his eyes away as quickly as he could. He refused to look at Castiel even when preparing to do the binding spell with him. 

_Refused_ , Sam mused. He was onto something.

Castiel’s admittance made Sam wonder: Dean and Castiel were strongly linked to each other because of the archangel cage that started this whole mess. Could that also explain Dean’s behavior? Was there something about Castiel that could possibly hinder Dean? Every bit of abuse Castiel suffered at Dean’s hands was near childish in its performance. _Bullying_ , Sam thought. He had thought it before: Dean shoving Castiel around and threatening was more bullying than anything else. He had threatened to hurt Castiel a few times, but he never followed through, never actually made a blow that would seriously injure the once angel. Dean did not have to let go of Castiel’s throat when he was choking him, _but he did_ , Sam thought. _He did let go_. In his mind’s eye, Sam saw the look on Dean’s face when he suggested that Castiel help Dean. That black-eyed fear and anger.

Sam rolled his eyes at himself and laid out the last of the herbs. He suspected himself too starved for hope that the demonization of Dean’s soul could have an easy rewind button to think straight. Yes, Castiel and Dean were strongly bonded through the whole cage business, but it being enough to use against Dean? Sam accused himself of looking too much into it. He hoped he was gathering enough pieces to setting up a trap for Dean in the future to start the curing process, but because Sam was still reeling from everything that transpired, the trap would have to be done using something else.

Sam brushed off the excess bits of herbs off his hands and stood in the center of the circle. He gave another slip of paper to Castiel to read the spell in Enochian: _“Ni-is oh-la-ny go-hov-so ohl to-roh-za-vo.”_

Sam expected an earthquake similar to that when the cage was descending, and he tensed his muscles in anticipation.

Yet nothing happened.

Sam looked around at the tree line surrounding them, waiting for them to start quivering and uprooting. He looked at Castiel expectantly, but Castiel only shrugged, and Sam ripped the paper from his grasp with a growl. “If that bitch gave me the wrong spell . . .”

The ground shook so violently the two men fell to their knees. The sun glowed impossibly brighter, casting the earth in a blinding white light. Sam shielded his eyes and tried to stand, but it was no use, and he fell to his knees once more. A soft ring echoed through the forest, at first a light noise like a fly that grew to a siren’s wail. Sam covered his ears and shut his eyes against the light; he was left blind and deaf and quivering. He wanted to scream.

The noise reached its crescendo. Silence followed. Sam opened his eyes and found the mural that they used to pass through to Purgatory staring at him: a graffiti door surrounded by random splashes of color and a signature in bubbled writing. The ringing that was wailing in his ears moments ago was nothing but cars honking at each other as they passed by on the main road. Sam turned around to see the street for himself, and what he instead found made him pull out his demon-killing knife by instinct.

Sheila stood at the entrance to the alley wearing the same poor meat-suit as before, only this time she had changed her clothes. She wore a pencil skirt and a blazer, as if she were at a business meeting. Her raven hair fell down one shoulder like a cluster of vines on one side, while the other side had everything tucked behind her ear, revealing one of her dangling gold earrings. Her smarmy smile was a familiar site, one that Sam wanted to carve away with his knife.

“It looks like you boys found what you needed to find,” she purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hope you guys enjoy, and _please_ let me know what you think in the comments, or just say hi, even! I wanna hear from you guys! Tell me what you think about the new season, about the finale of last season, your opinions on _the fact that they cured Dean in three episodes and then inspired me to milk demon!dean for all its worth_. *ahem* Got a little carried away there. ANYWAY -- you guys are amazing!


	17. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are _overreacting!_ " Sam reasoned, but his voice was harsh, and Castiel squeezed Sam's arm in warning. Sam, however, ignored it, stubborn as he was, and livid as he felt. "I've only been demanding what was promised me when I dealt with you." Sam's shout thrust him forward, and Castiel had to push him back. With eyes wide and harsh, and blood streaming from his nostrils, Sam looked every bit as crazed as Sheila. “You want me to be disrespectful? I will be.”

“Needed to find?” Sam repeated. Though his voice was calm, Castiel saw that his companion’s hands were curled into fists so tight that they shook. Sam flashed his bad arm at Sheila, whose smarmy smile did not waver. Castiel pursed his lips and squinted. She looked too pleased for his liking. 

Sam, with his never-ceasing suspicion, pointed the fact out: “You didn’t tell me how I was going to unbind him before I left. I expect that’s because you were planning on being here once we got back.” He scoffed. The grin he gave Sheila was not unlike hers. Castiel noted, however, that where Sheila’s was mischievous, Sam’s was murderous. “It’s like you were, I don’t know, _expecting_ this scenario, Sheila.”

Sheila shrugged, a gesture too casual for such a powerful entity, and thus more disquieting. “I wanted to see the deal through,” she explained. She crossed her arms and sauntered forward. “And I am. The binding spell is quite simple.”

Sam thrust his arm out. The red-orange glowing energy beneath his skin swirled quicker, as if it knew it were being addressed. “I’m waiting,” Sam hissed, which was rather contradictory, for he was clenching and unclenching the fist at his side impatiently. It was getting more difficult for him to hold back the fury he held for Sheila. Castiel could hardly fault him.

Sheila raised a thin eyebrow at Sam’s urgency, but did not comment further. Observing, gathering, saving for later. Her stolen eyes met Castiel’s, and she gestured towards Dean. “You’ll need to cradle his head, angel” – she faked a gasp – “ _former angel_ , forgive me.” It was all Castiel could do not to thrust the knife in his hands through her chest. It would not hurt her physically, of course; but mentally, it would greatly satisfy Castiel.

He went down to his knees and gently cradled Dean’s head in his lap. Worry and, despite Castiel’s efforts to push it down, bashfulness replaced the building rage. Sheila ordered him to open Dean’s mouth – “You might like that, indeed,” she added with a light giggle of mockery – and tip his head back. She ordered Sam to empty the contents beneath his skin into Dean’s mouth, which required him to break the skin and allow it to slip out. With both discomfort and curiosity swirling in his gut, Castiel watched as Sam cut his arm with a swift movement of the blade. Rather than blood beading at the opened wound, the lava-like substance slowly spilled over, congealed and sizzling. Sam hissed as he tipped his arm and allowed the substance to spill into Dean’s open mouth. He made no sound, no indication that he was being fed his very soul.

Castiel startled as Dean arched his back. Every bit of the essence beneath Sam’s skin was emptied, and as it slid down Deans’ throat, he choked. His back arched again, and again as his chest jolted to the sky, as though his heart was trying to leap out; it happened again and again until he began to seizure. Sam had to kneel down and hold Dean’s limbs in place, and Castiel had to keep Dean's head off of the concrete, lest he bang it repeatedly against the hard surface. Sheila, standing behind Castiel, made no attempt to help. She only observed as Dean seized and suffocated. Castiel would have cursed her were he not trying to stop the horrible gurgling sounds Dean made. His skin paled and his lips turned blue. _She wouldn’t have us kill him_ , Castiel thought defiantly, but the doubt was still there, hovering above him as Sheila did.

Dean went still. Castiel stopped breathing. With a click, black demon eyes, Dean’s eyes, stared up at Castiel. He was once again startled when Dean gasped loudly, arched his back, and curled his hands into claws. His body went limp again, and he closed his eyes. Castiel hovered over him to investigate. Dean suddenly opened his eyes, and they were once again green, and this time, angry. He shot up into a sitting position and elbowed Castiel away. _Is this what it is going to be like from now on?_ Castiel thought with a frustrated sigh.

“What the hell?” Dean asked Sam sitting beside him. _He doesn’t shove_ him _away_ , Castiel childishly thought. “That wasn’t fuckin’ pleasant.” Dean turned his glare to Castiel, who stared back with a grimace of his own. “Care to explain?”

Sheila answered instead: “It was a resurrection of sorts.” Dean, who barely noticed her, bared his teeth and blinked to reveal black eyes. Sheila’s eyes, on instinct, turned creamy white with a _click_. “Welcome to the land of the living, Dean.”

Dean stood blindingly fast. Castiel struggled to his feet. He did not want to be sitting between two powerful demons. “Nice to see you again,” Dean greeted, “Fucking Whore.”

Sheila’s usual arrogant smile was laced with disdain. Like Sam’s, it was less mischievous, and more lethal. Castiel’s heart pounded against his ribs. “I see being demonized has not ruined your charm,” said she.

Dean rolled his neck. “I got a lot more than charm, bitch.” In the next moment, he disappeared and reappeared standing behind Sheila. He growled and swung his fist, but hit only air. Sheila ducked with an impassive face and swung her leg all in one graceful motion. Dean, less gracefully, was knocked to nearby wall with a bone-crackling _thump_ , but redeemed himself by vanishing and appearing behind Sheila once again to land a punch. 

Castiel, all the while, was trying to scramble out of the way of the demons’ vicious dance, and pulled Sam with him by his sleeve. The only way they had to go, however, was the end of the alleyway, which was but a concrete wall. The exit was blocked by the demons. The two humans were trapped.

Castiel had seen plenty of demon-on-demon fights, and even more angel-on-demon fights, but never had he viewed such fights as a human. Though he tried, he failed to follow Sheila’s graceful dodges and Dean’s brash swings. They were swirls of tan and pale and brown and white and black. Periodically, a burst of flames would erupt on the concrete wall on either side of them. Castiel caught Sheila pausing to thrust an open palm out in Dean’s direction before an angry fire consumed a nearby trash bag. Her eyes, still a creamy white, were as furious as the fires she started. Dean, still a newborn demon, tried in vain to counter Sheila’s well-rehearsed telekinesis with that of his own, but where the objects she flung were like bullets, Dean’s were only strong enough to bruise, and most likely annoy Sheila all the more. 

“They’re gonna kill each other,” Sam breathed. 

Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it: telling Sam, “No, _Sheila_ is gonna kill Dean,” was not going to be comforting. Instead, Castiel said, “We have to stop them.”

A nervous laughter escaped Sam’s lips. “How do we do that?” When Castiel looked at Sam, he found no hint of jest, but instead wide-eyed fear.

Dean finally landed a hit on Sheila and knocked her into the concrete wall with enough force to leave cracks. She fell to the ground in a heap and a grimace of pain. Dean found an empty glass bottle and smashed it on the edge of a trash bin to make a weapon. As Sheila stood, Dean charged, and though she teleported, Dean anticipated it and slashed behind him. Sheila shrieked. A slash of crimson decorated her throat. Crimson, however, was not the only color of which Castiel caught sight: a shimmering sky blue escaped from beneath Sheila’s shirt. A hidden charm on a necklace Castiel did not realize she was wearing. He had seen that charm before: a vile with its rim tied with a blue ribbon to match the essence within. Castiel could hear its faint whisper calling to him. Summoning him forward. 

_My grace_ , he thought with wide, desperate eyes.

He grabbed a fistful of Sam’s sleeve and breathed, “My grace, Sam.” He looked back at Sheila, who managed to grab a handful of Dean’s shirt and was punching him repeatedly across the face. The motion swung the vile back and forth across her chest, like a clock as a hypnotist hummed, _You’re getting sleepy_. . . . Castiel bared his teeth and growled, “The filthy she-demon is wearing it as a charm.” He let go of Sam. “If I can get it back –”

“You know what that means, right?” Sam interrupted. “You’d have to get in between them and tear it off her. The demon-knife won’t hurt her – she’s a greater demon. It’ll just piss her off, and if you miss her, you might hit Dean.” Castiel watched as Dean kneed Sheila in the ribs and escape her grasp while she hunched over. The next time Dean thrust his knee, it was to her face. “And if you haven’t noticed, Cas, they’re _fighting_ , and they’re _demons_. You’re human right now.”

Castiel shot a scowl at Sam. “When I get my grace back, I’ll be an angel. Do not doubt my ability to stop demons.” Sam did not utter another counter as Castiel carefully tiptoed over to the bag that was mere feet from the fighting. Sheila had Dean by the neck, and she threw him to the ground with a bone-shattering crunch. Castiel hurried back to his (debatably) safe corner and fished through the bag. 

“Holy water,” Sam said with a smile as Castiel pulled out a flask. “Slow ‘em down.” His eyebrows shot up with a sudden idea. “Pair it with an exorcism, and you just might have a window to grab your grace.” He looked out at the demons and grabbed the holy water. As he uncapped it, he said, “I’ll douse ‘em, you exorcise ‘em.”

With a nod, the two men sprung into action: _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas,”_ Castiel shouted. Dean stumbled and clutched at his head as though it were going to explode. He let out staccato growls and whimpers, the occasional scream; Sheila, however, did not shout in pain: she faced Castiel with a glare and a reptilian head-tilt. _“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_ Sheila began to advance on Castiel, but as he continued the exorcism, she stopped and grimaced in pain. Dean looked up at Castiel with merciless black eyes, and he joined Sheila in her advance on Castiel. He continued the exorcism, but still they advanced. Sheila’s grimace turned into a horrifying glower that made her look like the Legion demon she was. _Holy water, Sam!_ Castiel silently begged.

Sizzling skin filled the air. The two demons were but a few feet away from Castiel. Within reach. Dean’s agonized shouts of pain joined in the chorus of sizzling skin, but Sheila remained ominously silent, with only a grimace of pain and a curl to her upper lip. Her skin did not sizzle, but instead steamed and turned red on contact. Luckily for Castiel (and unfortunately for Sam), the two demons focused their glares on Sam, and slowly turned to him. Sam continued dowsing them in holy water. (He had two flasks in his hands, which explained why he took so long: he was grabbing the second flask). Sheila was twitchy and clumsy: ripe for the picking.

Castiel reached a hand out towards his grace. A pure, beautiful, sky blue energy swirling restlessly within its prison. Such purity ought not to be worn as a charm around a being so tainted and wrong. _It should be mine_ , Castiel thought. _It_ is _mine_. The gravitational pull was strong. The endless swirling was hypnotizing. Putting Castiel in a trance. _I can grab it_. His hand was inches from the vile. _I can taste it_. 

A throbbing pain at his head. A galaxy of stars bursting behind his eyelids. Arm and chest aching. Castiel moaned. _What happened?_ he thought. He opened his eyes, but the constellations exploding like fireworks behind his eyelids did not leave, and everything was blurred, as though he were looking through a church’s mosaic window. He moaned again in his attempt to ask what happened. Nobody responded; or, if they did, Castiel did not understand: he heard a voice, and he heard the street’s traffic, but it was as if he had been submerged underwater. He let out muffled groans. Fading fireworks decorated his vision. It was not long until he saw a squirming body beside him and heard the sound of sizzling. His vision became clearer, and so did the figure lying beside him: Sheila. He blinked again and clutched his head as it all came back to him: he was reaching for the vile when Sheila was kicked so hard she was rammed into Castiel like a wrecking ball, and upon impact with the asphalt, Castiel hit his head.

Castiel groaned and lifted his head. A hiss escaped his lips, for the pain attacked his brain like a jackhammer. Through vision fluctuating between clear and blurry, he found Sam sitting against the wall with a bloody nose. Dean hovered above Sheila with his foot on her chest. He shook a flask – _my flask_ , Castiel thought – until nothing but small droplets came out. Sheila vanished as soon as the holy water stopped flowing. Castiel turned around and found her standing behind him. Her eyes were white and her lip was curled in a growl.

Something grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s shirt, and when Castiel turned, he was pulled up to an almost sitting position by Dean. His face was inches away. Castiel saw only green eyes and freckles and purple bruises and splashes of crimson. Felt a hot breath hitting his lips. A throbbing pain at his head and a longing in his heart.

“I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” Dean growled. Castiel’s heart pounded in his chest. Dean’s eyes were dilated, and one of the bruises at his cheek began to fade. Without looking at her, Dean called out, “I’ll see ya around for round two, Sheila.” Dean licked his lips. “As for you? You better hope to God there’s not a round two.” He threw Castiel down to the ground. “Fuck ya later, bitches.”

He vanished.

Castiel propped his aching self on his hands and knees. Sam groaned behind him, and Castiel stumbled over to help him up. Once Sam was to his feet, Castiel turned to face the threat behind him, and she was a threat, indeed: Sheila had not moved since Dean vanished. She was a marble statue, beautiful and smooth with creamy, lifeless eyes, and the face of a vengeful goddess. When she spoke, Castiel and Sam flinched, for her sudden roar was unexpected:

“You doused me in holy water!” The walls surrounding them cracked and the ground rumbled.

“Oh, come on,” Sam scoffed. He did not bleed blood as normal humans did; he bled sass. “Holy water barely has an effect on you, Sheila. You’re overreacting.”

Sheila took a large step forward. “You tried,” she snarled, “to _exorcise_ me!”

Sam grabbed Castiel’s arm too tight, and he flinched, but Sam ignored it and gripped tighter. As he pulled Castiel away from the wall and towards the exit, he replied, “You were going to kill him. We had to stop you.”

“You two were the ones who were going to kill him, _Boy King_ ,” she spat. Gone were the croons and endearing declarations of her pet name for Sam. Gone was the persona of Sheila the Miracle Worker. This was a greater demon in all her ire and pride. “Dean cannot be exorcised; his soul is still bound to his body, and were you to continue the exorcism, you would have ripped him apart! Do not blame me for your mistakes!” She disappeared and reappeared mere inches from the two men. Castiel’s heart leapt out of his chest and up into his throat. His blood pounded in his ears like a war drum. 

_“You didn’t tell me anything!”_ Sam shouted. He threw the flask of holy water in his hand angrily at the wall beside him. Castiel made to grab him, but Sam smacked Castiel’s hand away with wild eyes aimed at Sheila. “It’s past time you held up your end of the deal, wherein you. Serve. Me.”

_“I serve no one!”_ Sheila bellowed. Sam and Castiel scrambled to try and put distance between the greater demon and themselves, but there was no escaping her rage. She was too quick. 

“You come to me desperate, crawling on your hands and knees,” she snarled. Sam panted like a wounded animal behind Castiel. “You ask me favor,” she continued, “and though I give it, you _mock_ me, and you _disrespect_ me.” A burst of energy rolled off of Sheila and hit the two men like a gust of wind, blowing Sam’s hair back and making Castiel’s eyes water. _“You attempt to exorcise me.”_

"You are _overreacting!_ " Sam reasoned, but his voice was harsh, and Castiel squeezed Sam's arm in warning. Sam, however, ignored it, stubborn as he was, and livid as he felt. "I've only been demanding what was promised me when I dealt with you." Sam's shout thrust him forward, and Castiel had to push him back. With eyes wide and harsh, and blood streaming from his nostrils, Sam looked every bit as crazed as Sheila. “You want me to be disrespectful? I will be.”

Castiel had not realized Sam had the demon-killing knife in hand until he had it pressed against Sheila’s neck.

Sheila, however, was unfazed: her snarl slowly dissolved into unabashed laughter. The hairs on the nape of Castiel's neck stood on end, and his heart punched his ribs as Sheila grabbed Sam’s hand and slid his hand and the knife across her throat. Blood oozed from the wound, and though her skeleton glowed with the electric yellow of a dying demon, she only laughed. Sam, with eyes bulging, ripped his hand away from her and dropped the knife before pushing Castiel behind him. They cowered as Sheila came forward with a smile at her lips and a gory smile at her neck. The two men’s only hope was escaping through the exit at their backs. It would be useless, but if they needed to, Castiel and Sam could run, bide their time before Sheila attacked. That meager escape plan was immediately thwarted when Sheila vanished and reappeared behind them, blocking their exit path to the main road. Her laughter reverberated off the walls, creating a chorus of crazed laughter. To make matters worse, Castiel's felt the cold slam of the wall against his back: trapped.

"Hear me, Sam Winchester," Sheila ordered. Her laughter ceased immediately. "One does not betray me and go unpunished. 

Her eyes honed in on Castiel's, and her sudden wrathful glare melted into her signature arrogant grin, only more devious. Castiel could not decide which he preferred: her deranged laughter, her snarls and bared teeth, or her smarm, seductive smile and fake promises. The look she had was that of a controlled Legion demon, half-lunatic and all-powerful. Castiel's skin felt like it was raided by squirmy worms and crawling beetles. When she spoke, he flinched: "You will have to thank Sam" – she caressed the vile containing his grace – "for annulling your contract."

The cowering fear he felt but moments ago was swiftly replaced by blinding rage. Sheila simply laughed as Castiel roared, _"You dare –”_

"Your contracts are binding," Sam argued over the booming sound of Sheila's triumphant laughter. "You can't –"

Sam's protest fell on empty ears, for Sheila had vanished.

Castiel's world imploded in a matter of seconds. Sam stomped around the alley spitting profanities at the demon. His shouts were just whispers to Castiel's ears, and the pain in his knees as he fell was only a sting, the ghost of pain, for his whole body went numb. He stared at the absence of Sheila – it was all he could do; so he stared and stared. His senses were stunned; his skin felt tingly. His mind was blank except for thoughts of if only: _if only I grabbed it while she was so close; if only I grabbed it when she was reeling from the exorcism; if only I did not pawn my grace away like it was a cheap gold necklace._

_If only, if only, if only._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:
> 
> 1\. [Divergent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWv9o-gUnsE&list=PL07C7D80DEA4A9C4C&index=13) \- District Tribute (or unofficialscore on [youtube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCfpXQ3BxWK9WNSuCEl-TJsA))
> 
> 2\. [The Creeper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2EhFEs2hj4) \- Pelican


	18. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was no surprise that Dean was coming on to a guy – who was it that he traded places with in the archangel cage, and what did it imply? Maybe what surprised Dean was that it was so easy to switch over from chicks to dicks. He had spent years forcing that part of himself behind walls and layers of repression. Maybe the cage also blessed him with enough confidence to admit that he wanted to fuck this bartender. _And God_ damn _I want to fuck him_ , Dean thought.

Since Dean got topside that afternoon, he banged his way through the town, and he found more than one willing woman to fuck into oblivion. First was a blonde with the long legs: Dean bumped into her while checking into his hotel room (his love nest for the day) and his elevated charm ultimately dropped her panties. Dean left her moaning for more and with an insincere promise that he would call her. 

A few hours later, at more appropriate drinking hours, Dean was at a nearby bar surrounded by tomboyish women watching boxing matches and chugging beer. He had his choice: girls with husky voices and tanktops that downed a pint and mimed punches; girls with cropped hair and lipstick that cursed like sailors; girls wearing flowery dresses that downed cheesy potato after cheesy potato and criticized the fighter’s form. The woman he chose was small chested, had a boyish figure, shoulder-length blonde hair, and delicate hands. He and she found themselves of the same opinion about the heavyweights. Eventually he said the right words that had her whispering, “Let’s get outta here,” in his ear and doing wonders with her mouth at the hotel room. 

It was not until a few hours later at his second bar, chatting it up with a petite blonde with deliciously thick curls and thighs, that Dean realized that his charm was off the charts amazing. He was never this lucky before. Demons had a certain charisma that made them inviting. Ruby had it. Meg had it. Even ‘ole Yellow Eyes had a certain degree of magnetism. As he spread the petite blonde’s thick legs, Dean found yet another reason to thank the almighty Lucifer for his new demon status: Dean realized he was gifted the same charm as the other demons he’s met throughout his life, and he was taking advantage of it. 

Blondey number three left with a suggestion of, “We should get together again sometime,” and Dean said, “Sure,” before crumbling up her number and tossing it in the trash bin when she closed the door behind her. She was definitely not worth the callback, _but hey, at least I came_ , Dean thought.

He now sat at his third bar with a shot in his hand and eyes grazing the bar for his next victim to bed. He saw a blonde – which seemed to be the flavor of the night – at the other end of the bar giving him the silent “How ya doin’?” She was cute, no doubt, and she had those big “come-on-me” tits men sometimes went for, but Dean’s downstairs stayed as limp as a wet noodle. _I think I overdid it on the blondes_ , he mused. He downed the shot and sighed at the spicy, numbing feel of the alcohol sliding down his throat. He combed the whole bar and found not one person whose O face he was jonesin’ to see. _Maybe my libido has finally worn out_ , Dean surmised.

Dean turned his back on the amber and crimson of the tables and lights of the bar’s attempt at a restaurant feel and faced the wall of liquors, whiskeys, vodkas, and rums. He looked down at the bottom of his empty shot glass and licked his lips. He tapped the lip of his glass and asked the balding and pot-bellied bartender, “Could I get another?” 

“What were you having?” a throaty voice asked, and Dean looked up. He raised his brow – this man was definitely not the crotchety bartender who first served him a drink. This bartender was young, slim, and had a full head of messy black hair.

Dean leaned forward and gave a sideways smirk. “I’ll actually have some scotch this time,” Dean decided. “Please.” The bartender returned Dean’s smirk with hooded eyes and a grin of his own. 

As the bartender fixed the drink, Dean found it hard to keep his eyes off of the man. Dean hungrily grazed the bartender’s body. Knowing the other man was watching was a blissful bonus. 

Dean brought the glass to his lips. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Jameson,” the man answered, pointing at his nametag. Dean made a joke of embarrassingly taking a sip of his scotch and saying, “How much have I had?” and enjoyed hearing Jameson’s throaty chuckle. He asked, in return, “And your name?”

“Dean.”

“Well, hello, Dean.” 

_God damn_ , Dean thought automatically. This man had the kind of growl to his voice that would sound _heavenly_ in the dark of night and the heat of the moment.

Jameson and Dean found it hard to break away from the other’s gaze – not that Dean minded. He said, “Isn’t there that study that says if you and another person stare at each other for more than eight seconds, it’s because you wanna fuck ‘em?”

Jameson’s smirk said all Dean needed to hear, but when Jameson opened his mouth, a customer called for another round of shots. Before Jameson left, he replied, “I also heard it could be because you want to murder the other person.” He grabbed a bottle of vodka behind him and added, “Maybe next time choose a pick-up line that doesn’t have an underlying tone of murder, eh, Dean?” With a wink of his bright blue eye, the bartender went off to serve the hailing customer, and Dean was left laughing and tipping his glass to Jameson. He was rewarded with a crooked smirk.

Dean continued giving Jameson the silent but very obvious, “How ya doin’?” as the bartender tended his bar. How could Dean resist? The man was lean and had a lower back curve, where the back met the ass, that Dean drooled over, and the long runner’s legs. Square jaw and tasty lips. Bright, heavy blue eyes. Post-coital disheveled hair. Dean found himself imagining Jameson’s scruffy beard brushing against his cheek as they wrinkled the sheets beneath them. Teeth grinding against Dean’s jaw. Heavy breathing. Sweaty bodies. Dean licked his lips at the daydream, and Jameson caught him doing so. Dean chuckled at the blush creeping up the bartender’s neck and flooding his cheeks before he walked over to Dean.

“Want another drink?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “Want another pick-up line?”

Jameson chuckled before turning around to grab the scotch. As he poured, he shrugged. “As long as it’s better than the last one.”

Dean joined Jameson in the laughter. He would be lying if he said he was not lusting after those lips. Craving the feel of the bartender’s body against his. He wondered if he should be questioning the fact that he was wanting the D when all day he’d been fucking the V, but he brushed it off with a question of, “When do you get off of your shift?” to Jameson instead. It was no surprise that Dean was coming on to a guy – who was it that he traded places with in the archangel cage, and what did it imply? Maybe what surprised Dean was that it was so easy to switch over from chicks to dicks. He had spent years forcing that part of himself behind walls and layers of repression. Maybe the cage also blessed him with enough confidence to admit that he wanted to fuck this bartender. _And God_ damn _I want to fuck him_ , Dean thought.

Jameson checked his watch and answered, “Another few hours.” Dean _tsked_ , and he took another swig of his drink. _Wait for it_ , he told himself. “But,” Jameson added, and Dean licked his lips, as if he were not suggestive enough, “I can take my break early. Then I have forty-five minutes to do whatever I’d like.”

“Whatever you’d like?” Dean asked with a raised brow, and Jameson nodded. “Then maybe we can go and do whatever you’d like and get the fuck out of here.”

“And where would we go?”

Dean answered with the cheesiest line he has ever uttered: “To heaven, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:
> 
> [Hot Blooded](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5c1m2BAg2Sc) \- Foreigner


	19. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam offered the rum again. “Come on, Castiel,” he coughed. Alongside the numbing, the rum was setting fire to his throat. “You can actually get drunk now, and I don’t know about you” – he took another gluttonous swig of the rum – “but I sure would like to get drunk.”

Sam kicked the hotel door closed with his foot and leaned against it to catch his breath. “It’s always demons,” he sighed. Took a deep breath. Rode out the wave of pain washing over his arm, his torso, his everything. He leaned his head back against the door and inhaled deeply one last time, sucking in all the musky and coppery smells of the hotel room and his new aroma of sulfur, and muttered, “Why is it always demons?” 

He finally opened his eyes. The migraine-inducing unnatural light from the bathroom illuminated the rest of the room like a spotlight, and Sam squinted down at his smarting arm. He had it clutched in his uninjured hand to staunch the bleeding. The rag was soaked through; every time he moved, the wound reopened. He removed the nasty rag and hissed; the alleviated pressure made his arm sting from the lack of it. He looked down at the rest of his body as he flicked on the main light. Stains of crimson dotted his shirt like raindrops. Some of them were puddles, particularly around his ribs where he had an unfortunate run-in with a shard of glass. He counted to three, ordered, _Sam, you have to clean the wounds now_ , and pushed off the door with a breathy groan before heading over to the _his_ and _hers_ sink, where the no-longer-angel Castiel was examining his wounds.

Sam sighed at the sight of his battered face: small, bandaged cuts lined his cheek and his brow, and a bruise at the bags of his left eye formed a near black eye. It no longer ached; instead, it was just sore, and would be for a while. Sam braced himself for one of the worst of his wounds: the one on his arm that relentlessly bled despite its constricting bandaging. He had to make do with what he had in the car, which was not much: used emergency rags that were browning with use, gauze, and regular band-aids that Sam peeled off of the cuts that littered his face and arms. Sam huffed, reached for the rags, and hesitantly untied the knot. It jostled the flesh and he let out staccato huffs and groans of pain. A breathy moan escaped his lips as he began unwrapping, and as the last layer came off, the blood had crusted and peeled off with the rag, only to open the wound again. Sam let out a growled, “Ah,” as he dropped the rag to the floor. He grabbed the edge of the counter to try and fight the stinging of air hitting the wound, and the throbbing of having it reopened. He knew he was going to have to stitch it. He also knew he really did not want to do that.

Sam opened one eye and looked at Castiel. Where Sam had two major injuries – the gash at his arm and the near stab wound from the glass at his ribs – Castiel had a horde of small ones: cuts from glass, bruises, knicks from claws and a misplaced angel blade, and bites. He was currently using disinfectant to dab at a cluster of his many cuts with a grimace of pain and a hiss at his lips. When Sam scoffed, Castiel squinted not too kindly at Sam, and he did not know if it was the grimace of pain or a scowl of annoyance.

“We’re quite a sight, aren’t we?” Sam laughed, which quickly turned into a whimper. Castiel’s grimace melted away into a tight grin for only a moment before he continued his disinfecting. 

After Sam had gone hoarse from shouting at the absence of Sheila, and after Castiel forced himself up, they had left with empty hands, heavy hearts, and a bloodlust (at least on Sam’s end). They moved to another hotel not far from the devastation sight and decided to walk and grab food around the corner from the hotel, but the sight of black smoke replaced their hunger with the need to investigate. They followed the black smoke to a dump of a place and spied through a window. The demon smoke forced its way into a limp body with an already occupied and twitchy meatsuit hovering over it. Another lifeless body lay next to them. When the demon they followed spotted them, the already occupied one, a young man, quickly turned around and vanished, and before Sam and Castiel could react, they were both pushed through the window and landed flat on their faces. Sam and Castiel usually found fighting Legion demons half as taxing as fighting regular demons, as more often than not Legion get preoccupied with self-mutilation than with mutilation to Sam or Castiel; however, these two demons were determined to fight, and when the third body found a host, Sam and Castiel were trying to push the demons into harming themselves. The demon they followed managed to snatch the angel blade from Castiel, but when it nicked itself, it found a fascination with it, and it made it a lot easier for Sam and Castiel to take the demons down. They did not, however, leave without a few battle scars and more reasons to want to drink the day away (at least on Sam’s end). The altercation with Sheila had left them a bit too worse for wear.

With his lacerations cleaned and bandaged, and the bloody and torn shirt trashed, Sam retrieved the rum he stored in the mini fridge before he and Castiel left for food earlier that day. Without getting a cup, he uncapped it with one hand and took a swig. His throat and tongue became pleasantly warm and numb, and he shivered. He held out the bottle to Castiel. He only squinted, and when he did not give an answer, Sam shrugged and gulped at the rum. Castiel sat down at the small desk parallel to the beds and gestured to the other chair.

Sam offered the rum again. “Come on, Castiel,” he coughed. Alongside the numbing, the rum was setting fire to his throat. “You can actually get drunk now, and I don’t know about you” – he took another gluttonous swig of the rum – “but I sure would like to get drunk.”

“And what are we celebrating?” the former angel replied.

Sam shrugged and gulped at the rum. “Being alive? Not getting mortally wounded by Legion?”

“Rescuing your demonized brother from Purgatory only to set him loose on unsuspecting people?” Castiel added. “Getting beaten and battered by Legion demons? For getting double-crossed by Sheila? Perhaps you’ve found a way to lure Dean over to us so we may perform the demon cure on him?” Sam felt the urge to down some more of the rum. “Or are we celebrating the permanent loss of my grace?”

“All of the above,” Sam answered sarcastically. Already the rum was reaching its tendrils to his limbs, numbing the rest of his body. “Life right now is great; I feel great. There’s so much to celebrate.” Sam took another swig. “Don’t make me drink alone, Cas.”

“We need to talk about what to do next.”

“Why do you think I’m drinking?” Sam stood up and retrieved some plastic cups by the sink. As he sat, he poured some rum for Castiel. “We’ll talk, I promise.” He gestured to the cup, and Castiel looked back and forth between it and Sam. “Look, in all honesty, you don’t have to get pissed like I am – _I’m_ the designated alcoholic during Dean’s absence, not you.” Sam grinned at the sight of Castiel’s tight smile, and he leaned back. “But we could use a break. Take a swig and we’ll talk.”

Castiel took a generous gulp at the rum and sputtered like a teen having his first drink. Sam held his sides as Castiel grimaced and coughed. Sam asked, “What happened to Mr. I-found-a-liquor-store-and-drank-it?” with a laugh that turned into a whimper as the wound at his ribs began to ache. 

Castiel replied with various comments between sips: “This is different as a human,” sip; “It’s like motor oil and spices,” sip; “I much prefer wine,” sip. Eventually Sam had to pull out his wallet and order the former angel to buy a soda from the vending machine to mix with his rum, _which is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done_ , he thought. It was not long until the bottle was just about finished and Castiel was out retrieving yet another can of soda to mix with the rum.

Sam pulled out his laptop as Castiel was outside. He was about to pull up the recordings of Legion demon ramblings he had, but he found himself thinking about something else entirely. Truth be told, though Sam wanted desperately to search (and feed his obsession) for anything related to Sheila, he was not drunk enough to fuel the false hope of finding anything this soon. She and he had only been separated a day, and with the stunt she pulled before leaving, she would keep her head down for God knows how long. Sam knew he would have to look for outside sources on her, which meant digging into something he was too preoccupied to look into before.

When Castiel had been kicked out of heaven, Sam found something in his friend’s story odd: Zadkiel. Through a relatively buzzed haze, Sam recalled that the archangel Zadkiel had been completely removed from Heaven – wandering the desert, according to Castiel – until Sheila had returned. Castiel relayed the bursts of emotion Zadkiel expressed at the retelling of Sauriel’s and Dalya’s demise, one that Sheila – back then called Liora – watched. Zadkiel was more connected to Sheila than he let on – at least, Sam hoped that was the case. The hunch was all he had, and with his current buzzed ( _not drunken_ , Sam denied) state, it was hard to tell if he was thinking clearly. Still, his fingers clicked away in search of the archangel on the internet.

First, he looked up Raphael to check for accuracy on websites, and asked Castiel, who was sipping at his concoction of rum and Coke, to verify. 

“Yes, Raphael did bind Azazel, as it says in scripture,” Castiel said. His eyes were distant and heavy. “It was during the demon’s first attempt at finding Lucifer. Azazel was bound to a prison cell in Hell, but it obviously did not last, and I never knew why until the Apocalypse: Azazel was meant to escape.” Castiel sighed. “Still, there was a celebration in Heaven in honor of Raphael, the Healer, the one who bound Azazel.” Castiel said something under his breath in Enochian and lifted his cup.

Sam let Castiel reminisce and searched more information on Zadkiel. Almost every website, every article, every wackjob religious zealot associated Zadkiel with mercy. He was the archangel who stopped Abraham from killing his only son as a form of devotion to God. Castiel, high off of painkillers at the time, muttered about Zadkiel being the Angel of Mercy. Even Sheila equated him as “Zadkiel the Merciful.” 

When asked about that title, Castiel squinted thoughtfully, and after taking a sip of his drink (and after Sam took a gulp straight from the bottle), he recalled, “He told me I was ‘fortunate’” – Castiel made air quotes – “he had enough mercy to not strip me of my wings.” He scoffed and muttered, “Angel of Mercy my _nee-ah cod_.”

Sam took another swig. The bottle was now empty, but Sam always kept another handy, and this time it was whiskey, which Castiel eyed cautiously, as if he were worried it would attack. 

Another prominent point Sam found in his search were many accounts of Zadkiel being very emotional for an archangel: he encouraged others to show mercy and apparently healed people of emotional wounds if he had the chance. Castiel had said that though he showed bouts of emotion, Zadkiel showed no empathy. “Gabriel used to complain about Zadkiel being one of the favorites because he converted so many humans,” Castiel grumbled when Sam brought the archangel’s sympathy up. He said nothing else as he stood and went to the bathroom. Sam was too busy sifting through his drunken brain to ask for elaboration. A slow process it may have been, but he was starting to make connections: Zadkiel was notorious for being a Healer (like Raphael), an emotional and highly empathetic Angel of Mercy. The fact that he would disappear for a millenia or two in order to wander the desert and “get closer to God” was not too far of a stretch; however, the fact he came back lacking mercy and condemning Castiel rather than encouraging him to seek forgiveness (as many accounts of various religious texts claim) was cause for pause.

“Cause for pause,” Sam chuckled. His head was light and fuzzy and he was cracking himself up. _The alcohol is really kickin’ in now_ , Sam thought. Castiel wobbled out of the bathroom and Sam told him, “Cause for pause on an archangel’s flaws,” with another chuckle.

Castiel squinted, tilted his head, and leaned against the doorframe for support. “What are you talking about?”

“Like, okay, so get this,” Sam began, and Castiel hung his head and sighed. “Zadkiel, is, like, supposed to be super sunshiney and have rainbows up his ass, right?” Castiel grumbled what could have been a no as much as a yes, so Sam took it as a yes. “But you go to him and he’s major asshole, like assholiest of the assholes.” Castiel walked to the bed as if he were on a boat during a storm. “So either something, like, not very good happened to him, or maybe . . .” Castiel plopped onto the bed with a whimper. “. . . maybe he’s _not_ Zadkiel.”

Sam thought that perhaps Castiel was pausing for dramatic effect and letting Sam’s (drunken) idea sink in, but after a couple moments of silence, the former angel was snoring. Sam sighed deeply and had another big gulp of the whiskey. Where the rum left a numbing effect that made his body tingle, the whiskey set him on fire, and soon his mouth began to feel like it was stuffed with cotton and his throat like he swallowed lava. Unlike Castiel, however, sleep had no appeal to him, and so Sam continued searching and thinking: _Why did Zadkiel come back from his spirit walk? Why now? And why is he such an asshole?_ His claim could be drunken speculation, and he would wake up in the morning with enough facts to disprove his hypothesis; or, he could be onto something. No matter who Zadkiel was, he was somehow connected to Sheila, and Sam needed anything he had on her. 

Sam wrote down some notes on Zadkiel and searched up ways to summon an archangel without being vaporized. He also pulled up local news out of habit in case anything came up on his demonized brother. Sam and Castiel had made the promise of leaving Dean alone, and in return being left alone by him, but Dean had to have known Sam would not leave his brother alone. After yesterday’s events, Sam thought he could make Dean a deal, and he tipped the whiskey bottle to himself for being so clever: he pictured himself going to Dean ( _after luring him over with pie_ , Sam thought) and saying, “Hey, you hate Sheila, I hate Sheila, so let’s work together to take her down,” with demon-killing knife in hand and holy water in the other. Dean would make a sarcastic comment, and then Sam would magically capture Dean in a masterful trap _(with pie)_ and use the demon cure on him, and eight injections and eight hours later, Dean would be human, and then he would say, “Sure, Sammy, let’s go kill the bitch,” and he, Sam, and Castiel would take out a big and scary demon, just as they always did. 

_It’s foolproof_ , Sam sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie to you, but I love drunk Sammy.
> 
> That is all.
> 
> P.S.  
> The usual: you guys are amazing. Go give your friendly neighborhood fan fiction author some lovin'.


	20. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something in him cracked and his knees gave out in an instant. He slumped to the ground with a grimace of pain he could not control. For a moment – just a moment – the echoed thought of, “What have I done?” wracked his brain. He stayed on his knees surrounded by his work of art, the havoc he wrought, and he looked around at the blood and lifeless bodies.

Dean and Jameson thought it would be better to do their extracurriculars in the car rather than waste time driving to a more private location. It had nothing to do with the fact that the moment the two got in the car Dean pulled Jameson onto his lap and kissed him stupid. 

The man tasted like mint, smelled like mahogany, and felt like silk beneath Dean’s palms. He did not know how they managed to get into the backseat, but the next thing he knew, he was there straddling the other man, and he was fiddling with the buttons on his jeans. Jameson moved Dean’s hands out of the way and got the buttons undone himself, and he slid the jeans down just enough until Dean had to do it himself. Dean took his turn and slid Jameson’s pants off as well, and did the honor of stripping Jameson of every bit of clothing he had left. 

When Dean went back to exploring Jameson’s mouth with his tongue and straddling Jameson, he hissed. _Damn, I wish I brought lube._ The friction was maddening – pleasurable and painful and all sorts of new that Dean was becoming dizzy with lust. Jameson must have felt it, too, for he found his own delectable solution for it, though awkward the position may have been. Not that Dean was complaining: Jameson was a master at tongue-work, and Dean was close to finishing when Jameson asked about condoms, because, “Dean, I want you to fuck me like an animal.” Dean took no time in grabbing the emergency condoms he kept in his wallet, and grinned devilishly when Jameson pulled small packets of lube from _his_ wallet. 

Dean uttered aloud, “Are you sure we didn’t plan this?”

Jameson chuckled – a resonating bass to match his gruff voice – and helped Dean with the condom. He brought his lips up to Dean’s as he lubricated the condom, moaning and biting Dean’s lips all the while. When Jameson said, “Fuck me,” Dean obliged. 

They rolled like waves on a stormy ocean. 

Dean kept his eyes closed to enjoy the sense of touch; he lived the fantasy of feeling the scrape of Jameson’s scruff against his cheek, his hot breath hitting his neck, the scrape of teeth against his jaw. 

They thundered like rainclouds. 

Jameson’s little moans as Dean nipped and sucked at his neck were enough to make Dean’s head spin. As they reached the climax, Dean opened his eyes to meet those of Jameson and saw only sky blue.

Sky blue. Dark, ruffled hair. Deep voice.

All that was missing were angel wings.

Dean came with a wave of panic and disbelief. In his mind’s eye all he saw was the angel he saved, the one with the black and azure-tipped wings, the one with the gruff voice and sad baby blues. Dean could hardly stand to look at Jameson now that he realized why he picked him. Dean felt utterly pathetic; utterly, horribly, fucked-up-in-the-head pathetic. He got dressed in a hurry, and Jameson took his lead, though slower and rambling about “the good fuck” they just had. _I got fucked, all right,_ Dean thought, and a jackhammer started chipping away at his skull. His very nerves were alive with electricity. His bones were taught and tense like a rubber band being pulled to its limits before it snapped. A cramp twisted his stomach, and it quickly evolved into a near-unbearable throbbing, aching, churning of his insides. All were reminiscent of Purgatory. Dean had thought he was finished with that nonsense, but realizing how horrifically _pathetic_ he was, and with the thought of the former angel he had been trying to avoid in his head, Dean was beginning to crack. He needed to keep himself from falling apart. He needed to do something. He was sweating and his head was going to explode and his insides were going to tear him from the inside out – 

Dean reached out and grasped Jameson’s throat in a steel-tight grip. Jameson gasped and gargled, and he brought his hands up to claw at Dean’s grip. The wide-eyed fear found in Jameson was the answer Dean was looking for: he needed to kill Jameson. Dean’s body was obviously making that decision for him – and, in truth, he had gone too long without drawing blood.

Killing Jameson wasn’t killing Castiel, but considering the man looked like the angel, it would do. In fact, to make up for his stupid, embarrassingly petty feelings, Dean would change his plans from fucking everyone to killing everyone, and he decided to start with the bar. They saw him leave with the Castiel look-a-like, and therefore they must die. He needed to satisfy his bloodlust. He needed to redeem himself. He needed to save his reputation both publicly and within himself. _No more of this pussy shit_ , he promised.

Before Jameson passed out, Dean let go. The other man hunched over and coughed horribly as though he were hacking up his internal organs. His inhales were deep and raspy; his exhales were strained and wheezy. He struggled for the door as Dean got out of the car and went to the trunk to grab his Purgatory blade. Guns were too impersonal. A recently sharpened knife forged in Purgatory was far more fitting, and Dean broke the car window with its hilt. Jameson, who was barely beginning to catch his breath, wheezed and begged, “No,” like the weak human he was. Dean grabbed the man’s collar with a dead, blank face and pulled him through the shattered window. Jameson cried out in agony as he struggled, and Dean threw him to the ground as if he were a pile of garbage.

“Please, please,” Jameson cried. He had gashes all over his body from the shards of glass on the window. The blood from the wounds stained his half-buttoned white shirt with blots of crimson. Dean inhaled the scent of coppery blood deeply and sighed. Jameson continued to whimper and plead, and the only response Dean gave him was pulling him up by his ruffled hair and forcing him to meet Dean’s eyes.

Tears rolled down the man’s handsome and bleeding face. “Why are you doing this?” he blubbered, and he turned his face away.

Dean pulled Jameson’s hair tighter to hold the man in place, and when Jameson closed his eyes, Dean roared, _“Look at me!”_ Jameson only whimpered. Dean let go only to punch his lover across the face, and then grabbed his hair again when it was ripped away by the force of the recoil. “Open your eyes!” Jameson listened this time, and when Dean met those blue eyes, he blinked his eyes to black. Jameson struggled in vain to back away from Dean, muttering things like, “What the hell? What are you?” 

“I’m the demon that’s going to kill you, baby.” Dean grabbed a fistful of Jameson’s shirt and hauled him up. “You and everyone in that fucking bar.”

He pushed Jameson forward with the blade at his neck. When he attempted to call for help, Dean told him to shut the fuck up by nicking his neck with the blade and pressing it harder to the man’s neck. Thin cuts joined the bruises from hickeys and finger-tip marks. 

The reaction of the people walking into the bar was confusion that quickly bled into panic. Dean snapped their necks. The reaction of the people inside of the bar was that of immediate fear and terrified screams. There was a brave soul among the crowd that Dean immediately took care of with a flick of his wrist and a wet crack to the man’s neck. When people tried to make for the door, Dean flung the doors shut and locked them. The humans around him looked like cowering hens inside their hen house, and Dean was the hungry fox. 

Another brave hen came forward, and when she said, “You don’t want to do this. Just let the man held at knife-point go,” Dean blinked his eyes back to black. The shocked gasps from the crowd and controlled dread in the woman’s eyes were delicious, and Dean allowed himself to grin. He even let Jameson go.

And then he beheaded him. A clean death, _a reward for the good fuck,_ Dean thought in jest.

The room erupted in hysteria: some people pushed past him to try to get to the door, and others pulled out their phones to call the police. Dean rolled his eyes at the people shoving him aside and trying to gut him with cutting knives and broken bottles, and he vanished out of the middle of their mob. He broke the neck of a nearby random and lunged at another to behead him.

Those banging at the doors were cornered – _Not very smart, are they?_ – and he stabbed the closest person. As the others tried to flee, clucking like panicked hens, he hunted them down. Beheading. Stabbing. Slicing. Shredding. Breaking. Choking. 

It was all over too quickly. The last body fell to the ground in a final slump, leaving Dean with only the silence of the dead. The raging storm in his insides and the shattering earthquake in his mind had been subdued with the sacrifice of blood and bone. The power coursing through him made him feel like God, for he had controlled these people’s lives: how they died, why they died, and why none of them were spared. He had reestablished his power over his demonic transformation. He was in control.

Or perhaps not in total control.

Something in him cracked and his knees gave out in an instant. He slumped to the ground with a grimace of pain he could not control. For a moment – just a moment – the echoed thought of, “What have I done?” wracked his brain. He stayed on his knees surrounded by his work of art, the havoc he wrought, and he looked around at the blood and lifeless bodies. 

Dean took a deep breath. The existential and poisonous thought had turned to mist. His heart was hardened. His bloodlust satisfied. _I am proud_ , he decided, and with that, he teleported to his hotel room to change out of his gore-stained clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> [Bliss In Concrete](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQXTEf3LGUc) \- Pelican
> 
> First time writing smut. (No, I have never written smut before). It was so hard. I turned into a wee maiden at the idea of writing "penis" or even "cock." ~~I guess I need to practice and write more lovers for Dean to kill in future fics~~. 
> 
> Have a lovely day!


	21. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How about we kiss and make up, my King?” she whispered. Sam gulped. “I’ve always loved angry sex.” She playfully bit his ear.
> 
> “You know what will turn me on?” Sam replied, and Sheila giggled. _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas -”_

A sudden noise jolted Sam awake. 

His heart pounded against his ribs as he panted and looked around for the source of the unknown noise, but he found nothing. What he did find, however, was that he had fallen asleep at the table, and, as if it were waiting for him to notice, his back began to throb in response. The second he stood was the same second his head began to throb as well; it was like his brain and his back were sounding the drums of war, and he was on the losing side. Through squinted eyes and a hand to his aching temple, he peeked around the room in search of Castiel. Sam felt his way to the bathroom and found it empty, so he had to assume Castiel left the room; he guessed the closing door was what woke him. Sam would worry about his friend wandering out on his own later. The gong in his brain was priority.

After a heavy dosage of pills to calm the storm in his brain, and after a long, hot shower, Sam checked his phone for any news from Cas. , _Needed air. Won’t be far. Drink water. Call me if you need help,_ read the text. Cas must have sent it while Sam was in the shower. He tossed his phone back on his bed and decided to check local news for any sign of Sheila. He doubted finding anything after the way they left each other: if she knew Sam as well as she claimed, she ought to suspect Sam would be looking for her with even more zeal than before and would lie low. Still, Sam found it hard to shake the habit (the obsession), so he made himself comfortable on the bed and opened his laptop.

The first thing that popped up was a document. It was titled _“Zadkiel? More like NOTkiel.”_ Sam blinked a couple times and asked aloud, “What?” before it hit him like a freight train. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed in little circles, trying to keep the headache from coming back. The document was from the night before when he was digging on Zadkiel. He had a list of evidence for his hypothesis of Zadkiel not being who he claims to be, and then underneath was a new page titled, _“Team Free Will vs Sheila Bitch Lady”_ wherein Sam had a plan to make Dean kill Sheila with him and Castiel. Sam scoffed: though bizarre and drunken both ideas were, he had to admit, they were not terrible – except for the idea with Dean. Apart from the mention of the demon cure, his idea for Dean was narcissistically Mary Sue of him. He closed out of the document (though he did not delete it) to pull up the search engine he already had running. He refreshed the page and did a double-take; he rubbed his eyes, he refreshed again, and he stared.

It was breaking news: a local bar suffered a gory and violent massacre at the hands of an unknown madman. There were pictures and a video, but Sam hesitated watching the video, for the pictures were enough: in black and white and horrible quality was his brother’s face, only instead of normal, human eyes, demon eyes stared back. He stood amongst bodies with square shoulders and lifted chin. The news clip was dramatic, just as every news report was, but it featured bits of the security camera clip – but not too much, as “it contains content too violent for viewing purposes.” Dean walked in through the front doors with a hostage at knife point and a dead face. The screenshot Sam saw of his brother, where he stood amongst all the bodies looking proud, did not give the full story: the video clip showed him standing proud, all right – but it only lasted seconds before his face contorted into a grimace of pain and he fell to his knees in a slump before the video faltered and he disappeared, “which suggests the video was tampered with,” _blah, blah, you’re so incredibly wrong, blah,_ Sam thought as his brain began to short circuit. Sam had hoped that his brother would at least wait until he went full-on demon and began his killing sprees, but no – he was going to start the carnage early.

“First the Legion are out killing everybody,” Sam mumbled, “and now so’s Dean. Am I ever going to get a break?”

“No, Sam,” said a melodious voice, “I’m afraid you won’t.”

Sam immediately reached for the gun under his pillow out of instinct, though it would do nothing against the entity before him. The brown-haired, tan-skinned, dainty meatsuit she wore before had been ditched for a tall, lanky, toned, golden-haired woman. No matter who she wore, Sam could spot it as Sheila instantly, for it was the arrogant smirk and hooded eyelids that gave it away . . . and the fact that her eyes were an eerie pearl white.

“Get out,” Sam ordered. He was unprepared: the demon-killing knife was in the duffle by the bathroom and he was lounging on the bed; any movement he made towards the duffle would leave him open, his back turned, and vulnerable as he had to get up from his half-sitting, half-lying position. If he tried to exorcise her, she would snap his neck. He was humiliatingly unprepared, and by the look of Sheila’s smirk, she was greatly amused by the fact.

“Don’t try to play hard to get, Boy King,” Sheila chortled. She took slow steps to the bed. Sam cocked the gun. “I know you want me here. After the way we parted –”

“I want you dead is what I want,” Sam interrupted. He swiftly sat on the edge of the bed. Sheila stopped moving, but she made no move to protect herself. Her eyes only went back to normal, which happened to be a deep hazel. “Why are you here? Came back to apologize?”

Sheila laughed at Sam’s sarcasm and sat on the bed across him with her hands up. She was mocking Sam, of course, but at least she was complying. Sam still held the gun out and ready.

“Can’t I come just to see your handsome face?” Sheila asked with an upturned brow and a pout to her full lips. Sam scoffed. “Really, Sam, I’ve missed you.”

The next thing he knew, Sheila appeared on his lap, and the gun was knocked from his grasp. Before Sam could headbutt her and knock her off, she pinned him down, holding his wrists tight and squeezing her thighs to keep him locked in, though she did not need to – her telekinesis was doing all the work. She, despite everything that had transpired between them, was still playing the flirting game, and her next move was leaning down and pressing her lips to Sam’s ear.

“How about we kiss and make up, my King?” she whispered. Sam gulped. “I’ve always loved angry sex.” She playfully bit his ear.

“You know what will turn me on?” Sam replied, and Sheila giggled. _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas -”_

Sheila vanished in a flash, and as soon as he was free, Sam rolled off the bed and towards the knife. He stood halfway between the bag and the bed, and Sheila stood by the front door, eyes white and hands curled into claws. 

“You ought to work on your bedside manner,” Sheila growled. Sam shrugged, and he began to back up. Sheila breathed deeply and closed her eyes. Sam took his chance to hurry towards the knife, but she interrupted: “You’d best listen to me before you reach for that knife.” He rolled his eyes just as he opened hers. They were back to hazel, and her face was calm. Sam crossed his arms and tapped his foot as a visual for her to show his impatience, and when she smiled, he returned it with a shit-eating grin of his own. “Oh, Sam, how I adore you.” Sam rolled his eyes again. “You’re so brave and handsome and strong –”

“If you’re not going to say anything I don’t already know –”

“—and because of all that I will help you get to Dean,” Sheila finished. Sam fit his mouth into a tight line. His heart hammered in his ears. Sheila smirked. “I know exactly where he is, and I can set him up – gift-wrap him for you, if you will.”

“Okay, sure,” Sam scoffed.

“We have a mutual enemy here, Sam,” she said more forcefully. “I want him gone, but I know you’ll want my death even more if I kill him, so that is not an option. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder everywhere I go. I could simply kill you all, but I feel we can be of more use to each other as allies. After that, I will leave you alone and continue my miracle work. You help me, and I’ll give you –”

“Give Cas his grace back and you have a deal.”

“I’m already giving you Dean; that’s payment enough.”

“You stole Castiel’s grace and violated your contract,” Sam argued. “So that is more than fair payment.”

“How about I promise not to rip your intestines out and hang you with them,” Sheila growled, “and we have a deal.”

A burst of energy blew Sam’s hair out of his face. Sheila began panting, and Sam stood stiff as a board. He knew goading Sheila was like poking a bear with a stick, but he could not help himself. He had to make himself feel worth something for her. He had to play along with her until he found his opening. Besides, he needed Dean. Stupid as his drunken plan to get Dean was, it would work with Sheila, and she was doing the hardest part: trapping Dean. He could cut the worry for Dean in half and have time to focus on what to do with Sheila. Bide his time. Screw her over like she did him. She was also highly connected with the Legion; how connected, however, he still didn’t know – was she helping Legion make more Legion, or were they simply minions? If Sam allied with her, he could find a way to eradicate the Legion as well. He could find a way to get Cas his grace back – Castiel and the angelic powers that could kill Sheila permanently. Lots of birds, one stone. The only way any of this would work was if . . .

_Was if I become her bitch_ , Sam thought.

“Okay,” Sam sighed. “We can work something out. A mutually beneficial relationship.” Sheila cocked a thin eyebrow. “You give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want – within reason.” Sheila licked her lips. A shiver went down Sam’s spine. “I want Castiel’s grace back.” Sheila opened her mouth, but Sam raised a finger to silence her. “I will make _you_ a deal: for me to get Castiel’s grace back, I will help you in your ‘miracle work.’ _However._ Because you stole the grace and violated the contract, you will also have to help me out.”

“Name it, Boy King.”

Sam licked his lips thoughtfully. “Answer me this, first: what did Dean do to make you want him gone? Was it just the fact that he attacked you yesterday?”

“He interrupted the work of me and mine, and slaughtered them along with the other humans.”

This sparked Sam’s curiosity. He could not help himself when he asked, “How connected are you with the Legion?”

“That depends: what are you planning to do about the Legion?”

_That sure isn’t suspicious_ , Sam thought sarcastically. Out loud, he told her, “You tell me, I’ll tell you.” Sheila sighed, but made no move to answer. That, in itself, was answer enough. “You have your secrets, then. I have mine.”

She stared a long while at Sam. He stared right back. Once again, they were caught in the instinctual puffing of chests and fanning of feathers, sizing the other up. It was the staple of their relationship; it was one of the first things they did to each other. After a few agonizingly long moments, she finally said, “This is highly flawed, do you understand that?” Sam nodded. It was, however, all he had. To get the end result he wanted – Dean back to human, Castiel back to an angel, her dead, and the Legion eliminated – he knew he would have to play a long game. He could wait. “We will deal with Dean, first, my eager King, and then I will set you to work.”

“And I, you.”

Sheila snickered. “Have I told you how much I love it when you take control like that, my King?” Sam cocked an eyebrow, and she laughed. “Call your angel and tell him to meet us here, and then you can relay the plan to trap your brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I APOLOGIZE FOR THE NOT-WARNED HIATUS. I had a major research paper due but now that I've finished it earlier than I expected, you guys get a chapter I wasn't planning to upload until next week! (Or who knows when! *dead*)
> 
> Thanks for your patients and, as always, thanks for reading. You are all lovely.
> 
> (P.S. There _may_ be another haitus on the way. I don't know when. It'll be a surprise to both of us).


	22. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girl looked around, as if to see if there were any spying eyes, and, impossibly quieter, explained: “I’m not an angel – not fully.” Castiel tilted his head. “I’m half angel” – a light-bulb flickered to life in Castiel’s mind – “half human. A Nephilim.” She suddenly looked around again, even turning around, as if the words she spoke were likely to set off a bomb.

Watching other humans as a human himself was, in truth, wildly different than watching them while he was an angel. The only sameness the two instances shared was that he quietly sat upon a park bench and watched the busy park. He used to be in such amazement at the fact that his Father created these beings; now, however, he just stared and wondered at how they actually lived their lives – what choices had that woman made to lead her here? What had that man done so early in the morning to look so miserable? Had those two children even pondered on their existence yet? What was hugely different from the last time he watched the humans as an angel compared to now was the fact he no longer saw their souls. He used to be able to see the results of each individual human’s choices within their soul: if they had done enough to earn the title of _wise_ , or _cruel_ , or _kind_. Every soul swirled with a visible essence of who the person was. Now, however, he saw only their faces, and could only _guess_ at what their soul had hidden within.

During Castiel’s time off during the apocalypse, or any day he had for himself, he would go to a park and watch the humans, read their souls, marvel at their individual stitching and how they had carried out their free will. It was usually calming. After recent events, he ought not to have been wasting his time sipping on coffee and sitting upon a park bench; he ought to have been searching with Sam. He had decided that morning, after waking up with a head filled with cotton and a heart full of stones, that he needed the solitude and the calm of watching humans. That man Castiel had wondered about the miserable look upon his face brought another question to Castiel’s mind: had he experienced hardship like Castiel had? Was that what Castiel looked like? Were his sorrows plainly painted upon his face as that man’s was?

Castiel had come out to sit in the early morning sun to seek some peace. Instead, he had started to remind himself of why he needed it. He gulped at his bitter coffee (which was subpar compared to the roast Sheila had offered from the home she ‘borrowed’) and looked around for a distraction.

As if hearing his inner plea, a young woman sat beside Castiel on the bench. She was dainty and pixie-like with bobbed blonde hair, a storm of freckles, and bright blue eyes. Acting as if she did not need to start with introductions, she asked, “And how’s your morning?” with a quiet voice.

Cautious, but curious, Castiel answered with, “Normal, although I am avoiding my duties.” She looked innocent enough (and a tad familiar), but now that Castiel had witnessed the handicap that was being unable to see demons, his blood raced. The girl giggled at his answer, and Castiel cleared his throat.

“I don’t think people like us could ever experience true normalcy, if you ask me,” the girl replied. Even for Castiel, such a statement was odd. She noticed his raised brow and giggled again. “Sorry, I’m just – it’s not often I meet another angel.”

At this, Castiel’s raised brow twitched to a furrowed one. Shock was buried beneath his sadness. “If you’re an angel, you must see that I am not one.”

The girl’s – the angel’s – brow furrowed as well. “But you were.” She reached over and put Castiel’s calloused hand within her soft, dainty ones. “I saw you when you were one. About a year ago.” Before Castiel could ask how, she smiled a sweet, closed-lip smile. “You had bought water from the store I worked in with tucked-in wings.” She giggled. “Gave me too much money, too.”

For a moment, Castiel thought this angel was touched in the head, but the memory – so insignificant and small – resurfaced: it was long before Castiel even knew who Barak (Logan at the time) was, let alone that he had planned to trap Castiel in the cage. He was sitting with a green and vomiting Dean after he got off an amusement park ride and requested water. Castiel went to the store and bought some from a blonde girl who giggled at Castiel’s inability to properly count money and said, “Gave me too much,” in the same quiet voice the girl before him did just now. Though her hair was shorter, Castiel could see that it was the same girl. 

Castiel squinted his eyes and looked her up and down. “But – you weren’t – aren’t – an angel. I don’t recall seeing your true form.”

The girl looked around, as if to see if there were any spying eyes, and, impossibly quieter, explained: “I’m not an angel – not fully.” Castiel tilted his head. “I’m half angel” – a light-bulb flickered to life in Castiel’s mind – “half human. A Nephilim.” She suddenly looked around again, even turning around, as if the words she spoke were likely to set off a bomb.

Castiel’s curiosity got the better of him. “Why are you telling me this?” She looked back at him with sad eyes. He cleared his throat. “I mean to say that if I were any other angel, I might have slain you. Nephilim are not exactly . . .”

He did not need to finish the statement: by the way the young girl – who could quite possibly have been centuries old, being half-angel – looked around in panic, she knew exactly what Castiel meant. He need only think back to Zadkiel’s retelling of what happened to Sariel: _“abomination,”_ he had spat in reference to Sariel’s and Dalya’s Nephilim child. Angels had such a high sense of self that if any of them were to breed with a human, that child was viewed as tainted and ruined, for any angelic nature they had was spoiled by their half humanity. Nephilim children were, as the hive-minded angels thought, not meant to be. Nephilim were rare not only because few angels dared to mate with a human, but because the highly self-righteous angels – specifically archangels – ostracized them or killed them off.

“That is exactly the reason why I told you,” the girl said. “You’re Castiel.”

Were she an angel from Heaven, Castiel would not have been surprised at the fact she knew his name; the fact that she was Nephilim, however, made Castiel wonder: “How do you know my name?” The only way she could know him was if she was connected to Heaven and other angels.

“My father,” she answered simply. At the mention of her father, she grinned. “He visits often and keeps me informed on my angel heritage. I’ve heard so much about you.” Castiel inhaled deeply in expectation of reprimanding or the usual lecture of his mistakes; instead, the girl said, “You deserve more credit than you’ve been given.”

“You must not have heard about Zadkiel’s recent proclamation of my much undeserved title of angel,” Castiel countered. The girl’s eyebrows lifted in sympathy. A bit of sunlight shone in her bright eyes, and a gray shimmer reflected back. The hint of her Nephilim race. “Why do you think I am now human?”

She squeezed Castiel’s hand. “I want to help you.”

Castiel’s heart dropped to his feet. Despite himself, he asked, “How?” with a desperate crack to his voice.

“My father,” she answered simply. Castiel blinked. “He should sympathize with what you are going through.”

“Condolences,” Castiel muttered.

The young girl patted Castiel’s hand. “He’ll understand.” She bit her lip a moment and said, “Although, I should warn you – news of your grace being in the hands of a demon has circulated through the celestial chain of command –”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Of course it has.” Heaven was like a small town, and angels were its gossipy residence: rumors, based in both fact and fiction, spread like wildfire.

“— and my father is highly disappointed.”

“He isn’t the only one.”

Her closed-lip smile returned. “But he hasn’t yet turned away from one whose heart and soul are weary.” She stood abruptly and held out her hand. “Come, Castiel. I’ll summon Father at my house, and we’ll sort things out.” 

Castiel, with a confused squint and a wildly churning stomach, took her dainty hand and stood. “You had better send word to Sam Winchester.”  
Castiel, who had not even thought about Sam since this girl appeared, pulled out his phone to find that Sam had most definitely thought of Castiel: he had over five missed calls from his companion and about the same amount of frantic texts, all of which basically demanded his presence. None explained why, but before Castiel could panic, Sam had not said he was hurt, nor did he say he was in trouble. The last text said that Sam had a plan. Castiel replied with, _I have a plan as well. Will call when I find out more. Apologies._ It was not the best route of communication; however, Castiel did not know how long his window of opportunity was open, and he did not want to risk its closing.

“I’m Abigail, by the way,” the girl added with a giggle.

Nephilim, he had not realized, had the power to teleport, despite not having wings. In the next moment, pastel walls surrounded Castiel, and he smelled cinnamon. He looked around the small living room and found one of the pastel purple walls filled from top to bottom with pictures. Abigail left with the announcement that she was going to summon her father. 

Castiel walked around the room and surveyed the wall full of photos: all were of different parts of the world, and each had a different smiling girl. Castiel recognized one of the girls – one of black hair and dark chocolate colored skin – in the English country side; another girl, this time with tawny skin was in the mist of the Yellow River in China; a freckled red-haired girl was in the Grand Canyon; a small woman with almond-shaped eyes was posing in front of the pyramids. Finally, the last few photos near the bottom showed Abigail in the romanticized city of Verona, Italy and New Zealand’s vast valleys. It took Castiel a moment, but he realized he was staring not at different girls, but the same girl with different faces: all of these women were Abigail. The quality of the photos, though not old, hinted at their age, and Castiel guessed some of the older ones were from the 70s at the earliest, and she looked older than she did now. He did not know how long Nephilim lived, but he knew, because of their angel blood, they had the potential to live long lives.

He backed up to the plush white couch and sank into its cushions. Photo frames, filled with photos of the current Abigail with various other humans, decorated the small fireplace and the small tables beside the couch and matching chair. On a bottom shelf on one of the chairs, Castiel found a very old photo album. His curiosity flared at the title: 1920 – 1960. In it were old pictures of whom Castiel assumed was Abigail. She seemed to have lived a good life, and was still living one. Her father obviously protected her from any disapproving angels. Although, having met the girl, and having seen glimpses of her adventures, Castiel had trouble understanding what sort of threat a Nephilim such as she made. She was even offering to help a defeated angel such as Castiel, an angel whose life reflected more sacrificed blood than it did anything else.

While he had a moment, Castiel checked his phone, hoping to reach Sam to give him the news. He listened to the voicemails, and his stomach bubbled with worry: Sam had allied with Sheila to get Dean, and in a hushed and hurried voicemail, Sam mentioned that they could also kill Sheila and get Castiel’s grace back if they were careful. Castiel, whose heart was racing with anticipation moments ago, was now feeling hot with sweat. His fingertips went numb – were he still in possession of his powers, the numbing would have been indicative of the build-up of celestial magic. It was too late for panic, for Sam was probably consorting with Sheila now, and Castiel did not know how long he’d be until he could join his companion.

Abigail came out from a small hallway and past the kitchen to join Castiel in the living room. Castiel quickly pocketed his phone and tried to hide his boiling mixture of fear for Sam and fear for himself. Abigail did not seem to notice; her cheeks were flushed. Castiel realized he still had the photo album in hand and closed it gently. 

She only giggled. “Continue looking if you wish. My only complaint is some of the fashion choices I made and the faces I chose to wear.” Her white cheeks were a pinkish red. “I beg you not to look through the photo album with the 80s era. I had an affinity for parachute pants.”

After a moment of laughter, Castiel could not help himself. “Who is your father, Abigail?” She bit her lip. “Would I know him?”

“Not personally, no, but you may have heard of him.” Abigail looked down at her intertwined hands and fidgeted with her pearl bracelet. Castiel’s heart gave a nervous lurch, and his stomach an anxious roll. “Archangels rarely leave Heaven without some sort of reputation.”

It was as if Castiel’s entire skeletal system slipped out of his skin. He thought the worst case scenario was some random angel with a possible alliance to Zadkiel. Having to meet an archangel as a lowly human made Castiel’s mouth dry. Archangels were so far and few. So rare and powerful. Revered. Feared. He gulped, an act like swallowing nails, and repeated, “Who is your father, Abigail?”

“You have to understand something first.”

_Se oh-ay-ahd nee-dah-li_ , Castiel cursed with a drop to his stomach.

“My father went through something tragic, and since then, he has been taken every precaution necessary to protect himself and me. It is why I change faces so often. With the Legion race resurrected, he became even more on guard, and even more determined to come back.”

“Come back?”

“All of Heaven believes he is dead. He meant it to be that way.”

For a hopeful – and, admittedly, crazed – moment, Castiel thought Abigail was going to reveal that her father was Gabriel, and that he had never died. Instead, she revealed something far stranger, and far too contextual: “He is the archangel Sariel.”

While Castiel lost all feeling in his body, a flurry of ruffling feathers broke the silence, and a figure appeared in the kitchen. Castiel was frozen in place with ringing ears; all he heard was Abigail ’s happy voice and a stranger’s deep, rumbling laughter as she ran up to hug the visitor. The man, dark-haired and of a deep caramel skin, dressed in a pin-striped suit, wrapped his arms around Abigail’s waist, hers around his neck, and he lifted her up and swung her around. Through the clanging of bells and whistles wracking Castiel’s melting mind, he heard a deep voice, but did not understand the words. He could not see the man’s face until he had stopped spinning Abigail and set her down in front of him with warm eyes and a wide smile.

_But you’re dead_ , Castiel thought. _You’re supposed to be dead. How are you not dead?_

Castiel’s hearing came back in a _whoosh_ as Abigail told her father, “Abba, this is the angel I told you needs our help.”

Castiel, although his legs were wobbly and numb, stood, though he said not a word. He wished he was an angel for various reasons: he wanted to see the archangel in his true form, to see what scars he bared from the cage; mostly, he wanted to at least be on equal celestial ground. When the archangel Sariel finally looked at Castiel, it was as if his insides liquefied and all the air in his lungs turned to lead. Sariel said not a word, though he did not need to: the narrow-eyed scrutiny froze Castiel in place. Sariel circled around him with a warning from Abigail not to be harsh. Castiel’s fingertips went numb, signaling his body’s want for angelic magic and defense; his shoulders ached for his wings so much the pain was nearly unbearable.

“What is your name?” Sariel asked in a deep voice. The lightbulb in Castiel’s mind flickered; the voice was familiar, but Castiel was too frozen for his mind to work it out. “And why are you human?”

His mouth was like a desert. He cleared his throat, a sound like a dry and cracking riverbed. Fortunately for Castiel, his body had remained still, and though his fists trembled, he held his ground. The archangel might not sense Castiel’s tremoring worry right away. “I am Castiel, the Angel of Thursday –”

_“Castiel,”_ Sariel hissed. His eyes glowed a brilliant and bright blue with angelic magic. Castiel’s heart exploded in his chest; he could hear his blood pumping in his ears. He backed away but the back of his legs met the plush couch. Abigail called her father’s name, but it fell on deaf ears. “What are you doing here? How did you find us?”

Castiel was too dumbfounded to think – _What does that mean? What did I do wrong?_ – but Abigail shoved her way between Castiel and her father. Her eyes had a dull gray glow. Castiel’s stomach dropped when he saw her slap her hand onto Sariel’s chest and push him back, shouting that Castiel was no threat. The archangel, however, made no move to punish her. In fact, his eyes returned to their normal deep brown, and the blue hue receded.

“Do you know him, _Abba?_ ” Abigail asked with a raised voice. Sariel breathed heavily. “If you knew who Castiel was, why did you not help him before? He went through the same thing you and _Ima_ did!”

“He knew too much, Abigail, so I did what I must,” Sariel said. He scowled at Castiel. “Do you see why I did? He knows we’re alive, and he could reveal us. I had to establish dominance amongst the angels in Heaven and to maintain my cover in case he found out.”

“What did you do?” Abigail asked in a growl. She looked behind her at Castiel with sorrowful scrutiny. Then her eyes widened and she wheeled on her father. “ _Abba_ , what did you _do?_ ”

“I did not take his grace,” Sariel replied defensively, “if that is what you mean. I had enough mercy in me not to strip him of it.”

It all hit Castiel head-on like a freight train: he had heard the same voice say the same thing moments before Raphael physically cast Castiel out of Heaven. While Abigail, who caught on long before Castiel’s shocked brain could, scolded her father for what he had done, Castiel’s knees turned to jelly. He wanted to laugh. Sam, even when drunk, had begun to find the archangel out, he just did not know where to go once he started. Castiel had hardly listened then. Hardly even considered. The very archangel who came back from the dead – or, as he told Heaven, from the deserts – just when the Legion started paving a trail of desolation and who scolded Castiel for falling in love with a human was the same archangel who died for the human he loved.

Zadkiel had been Sariel this entire time.

“I can’t _believe_ you!” Abigail shouted. Though she was so much shorter than her towering father, with the way she carried herself, she swelled to a giant and hovering power. “He is an _ally_ in all of this! He was fighting the very thing that took _Ima_ from us! _My mother!_ ” Sariel opened his mouth to argue, but Abigail did not give him an inch. “How dare you punish Castiel for what he went through when you yourself suffered the same fate? You would have done the same were you in his shoes. You would have done the same.”

Castiel had never seen an archangel silenced the way Abigail silenced Sariel. The archangel breathed heavily and emitted a dull blue glow; his fists clenched and unclenched, but he made not a move out of anger. Abigail stood her ground and stared her father down. Castiel questioned which creature was truly the more powerful one.

“I have a plan,” Castiel spoke at last, and Sariel’s eyes met Castiel’s with visible loathing. “I can get my grace back, make Dean human again, and kill the Legion with whom I . . . previously allied.”

“Unlike you,” Sariel snapped, “I do not consort with such filth.”

“She is no ordinary filth, _Zadkiel_ ,” Castiel retorted. Sariel’s eyes glowed a brighter blue. “You know her. You loved her sister.”

Abigail covered her mouth in shock. Sariel’s eyes returned to their deep brown. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “It is Liora.” Abigail’s eyes were a novel of sorrow. Sariel inhaled deeply through his nose. 

Castiel felt a swell of strength and confidence, but he knew it would not be enough. Sariel had thrown Castiel out of Heaven for merely knowing what it was like being in the cage. It was a drastic and emotional decision; Castiel, however, recalled very clearly how Sariel hardly held himself together when retelling his own story. Castiel _felt_ that pain. He had to show Sariel that they were on the same side; that he, Castiel, felt the same need to rid the earth of all Legion. Especially the one who stole his grace.

“You told me I needed to redeem myself,” he began. “I admit I have done a poor job. But I have been doing everything I can to bring back the human for whom I suffered that cage. The same human who sacrificed himself so that I may walk free. Dalya did the same for you.” It was hard to miss Sariel’s flinch and the redness at Abigail’s eyes. “Her memory needs to be honored. The demons born of this cage need to be vanquished before they take any more human lives. Before they demonize more souls. I need my grace to help the human I love. I need my grace to eradicate the Legion.” Castiel breathed deeply. “And I need your help. _Help me_ , Sariel.”

Abigail looked hopefully at her father. Castiel held his breath.

“Do not make me regret this, Castiel,” Sariel said. His features softened, and he sighed. “Tell me your plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for your patience. Another hiatus is underway, but this one won't be as long. As the Starks say: "Winter is coming." More specifically, winter break. The fall semester is coming to a close, and finals are upon me. Since I'm binge watching a new TV show, I thought I'd post a new chapter. Once the hiatus is over I'll go back to a weekly to every other weekly (depending on what I'm doing) schedule. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	23. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam backed away from Sheila and towards the brown and velvety couch behind him. Despite his instincts screaming at him to stay standing, he ignored them and sat down. Submissive. Cautious. Unpausing the game. He asked Sheila, “What is the plan” – he forced a smile – “my fabricated wife?”

Sam leaned against the driver’s side door of the Impala with arms crossed and nerves on edge. Every passerby and every crunch of dirt underfoot had him twitching. His eyes darted around, following every bystander, waiting for their eyes to turn white. Not only did he feel invaded by bugs crawling and tunneling beneath his skin, he felt rushed, on-edge. Combined with the chill early afternoon air and the surrounding of a busy lodge and lake, Sam wanted nothing more than to punch something. Sheila had given him a location at which to meet after she “took care of something” and told him to arrive in a few hours’ time. As all demons do, she vanished without warning, leaving Sam to panic – what if she was setting Dean up for the trap? – and pack in a flurry of plaid and knives and guns before weaving through traffic to arrive on time. He was ten miraculous minutes early. Sam pulled his arm from around himself, braced the cold, and checked his phone for the time. _That was ten minutes ago,_ he thought with an impatient huff. Sheila had yet to show herself.

A family who materialized behind him suddenly burst out in laughter, causing Sam to jump out of his skin. He failed to catch what was funny but did find something else on which to focus his anger: the booming business of the lodge and the crowded lakeshore. Since Sheila was obviously planning on being late, Sam decided to at least not freeze while he waited, and he reached inside the car to grab his jacket. He may have been a little forceful when shoving his arms through his sleeves, and he may have drawn a wary eye from a bystander, but it only made him thrust his hands all the more angrily into his pocket as if he were barreling down his fist in a punch. Sheila picked a fine spot to meet: popular, full of witnesses, and surrounded by vivid emerald woods into which no sane person would flee, lest they want to encounter a bear (maybe even a wendigo, were it around the tail-end of their fifty-year hibernation). She wasn’t fooling Sam: she chose a public area to make sure he behaved himself. The only thing that he benefited from in this situation was that Sheila would be forced to behave as well. Attracting too much human attention meant attracting the attention of the angels, and nobody, not even Sam, wanted that.

Sam checked his phone again for the time and also for any missed calls from Castiel. He had received only a text message: _I will call when the plan is ready. Stick with Sheila’s plan for now._ Castiel sent it when Sam was driving. Despite Sam’s attempted calls and texts, yelling into the voicemail that the coast was clear and “now would be the perfect time to enlighten me,” Castiel made no attempt of further contact. Were Sam not riddled with greasy frustration and bubbling anxiety making home in his stomach, he might have actually enjoyed the Great Lake and its lodge. Although cold, the sun was bright and the sky was cloudless; its rich baby blue reflected upon the lake and made it glisten like a cluster of diamonds, in which families and couples fished and rode around on boats. The lodge was filled with individual cabins and a dining area with a beautiful scenic view of the distant mountains. Sam would have liked nothing better than to curl up by a fire with a good book and a steaming cup of coffee.

“If we’re lucky,” said a light female voice from nowhere, making Sam jump out of his skin for the second time that afternoon, “we might glimpse a wild moose out by the lakeshore.”

Despite being startled, Sam stood straighter, crossed his arms, and glowered down at the small, toned, blonde woman that appeared beside him. Sheila, still wearing the same meatsuit from this morning and sporting her signature smarmy grin, was unfazed by Sam’s attempt at dominance, and dared to giggle. Sam leaned against the car and rolled his eyes.

“You’re late,” he growled.

“I was acquiring our room,” she replied, and she pulled a key with a tag and a number hanging from it out of her windbreaker pocket. “The honeymooners’ cabin. Expensive and noticeable.” Sheila waved at someone behind her and Sam turned around to find a random woman waving back before going back inside the main office for the lodge. “I’ve also been laying out the breadcrumb trail.”

Sam wanted to be angry with Sheila for picking such a crowded place; he wanted to complain about her poor choice in a site for the trap, but he couldn’t argue. This spot was near perfect for luring Dean closer. “Dean will follow it thinking I’m looking for him,” Sam iterated. “It looks like I’m trying to hide in plain sight. He’d know the signs.” 

Sheila beamed at him as if he were a child who was getting a gold star for the correct answer. “And a honeymoon suite for a Sam Winnabaker and his charming _wife_ (no scruffy haired man in sight) is more out of character for you, and therefore in character.” She wriggled the keys and began walking forward. Sam followed at her pace. “And when he finds out we are together, he will be more inclined to come after you.” They passed rows of small cabins, following the dirt trail and towards the horizon of deep green trees and towering mountain. Sheila reached out and intertwined her fingers with Sam’s as they passed another woman who waved at Sheila. Sheila waved back with a charming smile. Sam felt his insides boiling. “Wouldn’t be the first time your brother has caught you sharing a room with a pretty she-demon.”

Were there no witnesses, Sam would have ringed Sheila’s neck. Or perhaps carve that cocky grin off her beautiful face. Or maybe even just cut her to ribbons. Sheila, having no idea Sam was fantasizing about the many ways he could kill her, only giggled before stopping at a door with a number that matched the one on their keys. Sam ripped his hand from hers without caring if he offended her. If she was, she made no sign; instead, she put her back to the door, hand still on the knob, and stared up at him with hooded eyelids. “Welcome to our room, my fabricated husband.” She opened the door and waved her hand inside of the cabin. Sam hovered in the doorway and sighed. A sudden wave of hot homicidal anger washed over him as he felt Sheila’s delicate hand tap his bottom. “Don’t make me spank you, my King, hurry in. We have plotting –”

Without a word, Sam grabbed her arm in a crushing grip and threw her inside the cabin before slamming the door behind him. He threw her against the wall beside the door and hovered over her. Through clenched teeth, he whispered, “Touch me again, and you’ll lose your hands.”

It was as if his threat fell upon deaf ears. Her seductive stare did not falter. She made no sound. Sam panted heavily and angrily while glaring down at her; he made no attempt to move, nor to break the stare. How was it that they always found themselves in a predatory staring contest? Sizing the other up, measuring their will, searching for weakness in each other’s eyes. It was not until a moment of thick silence and dense tension that Sheila made the first move: she licked her lips. “If I lose my hands, Sam Winchester,” she whispered, “sweet little Johanna loses her hands” – Sam recoiled as if he touched a hot stovetop – “and whatever else I choose.”

Sam breathed heavily through his nose. Though the fire in his belly burned hotter than Hell itself, his heart dangled over the flames like a slab of meat rotating on a spit. _You have to be careful_ , Sam reminded himself. Sheila cocked her head to the side and continued her sultry gaze. As always, she knew that she had Sam on a leash, and through a ringing in his ears he heard her ask, “Are we clear?” Sam _hated_ it – he hated how she knew how to play him, and how to keep him in line when he tried her patience. Were he the only one he had to worry about hurting, he would have gladly continued his poking and prodding, but that was far from reality: his safety was not the only one he gambled when baiting Sheila; he had Castiel to protect. Sam did not even _think_ Johanna would be in need of protection from the threats she worried about in nightmares. How Sheila found this weakness in Sam made him want to shake her like a ragdoll and shout, “You leave her out of this!” till all the stuffing came out. He, however, knew such action would anger her more and give her even more leverage over him. So he let himself be mocked by Sheila’s patronizing grin, and he prayed to God that he did nothing more to offend her.

Sam backed away from Sheila and towards the brown and velvety couch behind him. Despite his instincts screaming at him to stay standing, he ignored them and sat down. Submissive. Cautious. Unpausing the game. He asked Sheila, “What is the plan” – he forced a smile – “my fabricated wife?”

The room was warm and bright with many windows and opened curtains. Sheila shut them while she spoke: “Dean isn’t far from here.” The room, though possessing light colored wood walls, darkened with the closed windows, and the earthy tones of the carpet and furniture became grayer. Sam was reminded of Purgatory. “I will continue making myself seen – continue the breadcrumb trail, if you will – and lure him in. When he comes to investigate” – Sheila peeked inside the doorway Sam assumed lead to the bedroom, for he could see the hint of a bed – “I will make sure to linger by your filthy car, mingle with couples” – Sam heard the sound of the curtains being drawn – “make deals, and then come to our room. Lead him to us.” Sam shifted in his seat but held his tongue. It did not, however, go unnoticed, and Sheila sighed. “I have to continue my business, Sam, and it will be more convincing if I am out making deals – deals you will later be a part of, _if_ you recall.” Sam couldn’t forget the deal he made with her so quickly – she helps with Dean, and he later helps her with making deals, whatever that entailed. His only hope was that after this whole Dean business was over, Sam would have a chance to kill her before he had to do something he’d rather not do.

To hide his disgust, Sam spread his arms across the back of the couch and crossed his legs. He waved his hand in a sweeping moment, allowing her to continue, but she crossed her arms and _tsked_. “Because you are so smart and clever, my King, why don’t you tell me what you’ll be doing while I am out being the decoy?”

“I’ll be in here with a demon trap, the demon-killing knife, holy water, handcuffs with demon-trapping sygils, and . . .” Sam paused. Thinking. “And maybe Castiel, if you could grab him, since he doesn’t have wings and all. I’m waiting for his call so we can figure out where the hell he’s been.” Sheila’s hand twitched ever so slightly. She tried to play it off by taking off her windbreaker, but she only revealed the grace swirling in a vile hanging from a thin gold chain worn around her neck. Whether or not she meant to show him was unknown. “This would be even more full proof if Castiel got his grace back –”

“I decide what the angel’s reward will be,” Sheila snapped. A wave of energy rolled off of her, upsetting the curtains and blowing his hair from his face. Sam knew to remain silent, but he couldn’t help but congratulate himself on finding a chink in her armor. “Perform your part well, dear, and we’ll see what I allow.” She flipped her ponytail off her shoulder and breathed deeply. “I’m going to set the plan in motion. You set the trap.” A forced grin decorated her beautiful face. “I expect this room to be well prepared for our honeymoon activities when I come back.”

“I’ll have dinner ready when you come home.”

She blew a kiss and vanished.


	24. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing the reminders of his past, symbolized by the hulking figure of his brother and the sad eyes of his once almost lover, would surely help him along in the last bits of his transformation.

Heart pounding. Bones splintering. Skin blistering. Skull cracking. Dean sat at a diner with an uneaten plate of food he ordered without thinking and a cup of water he wanted to dunk over his head. All he could hear was his own pumping blood in his ears. He expected the blood bath he left at the bar to have satisfied the bloodlust for at least a few days. He barely made it twelve hours: he left the bar and changed in his hotel room to go hustle for money and hit on the locals. He found another woman to bed, but the bloodlust and demonized soul-induced pain returned, and both were hell-bent on causing Dean agony. He killed the girl during their pre-coital activities by repeatedly smashing her head against the wall as a visual representation of how his own head felt. He left in a cold sweat and ended up in the diner to try and calm down and eat. His stomach, however, was boiling and bubbling too much to eat and his throat was dry and cracked.

He knew what he had to do to heal himself. He had to kill again. But it wasn’t just a singular kill he needed – he needed to commit a carnage reminiscent of the bar. He had accepted that fact in Purgatory – hell, he even looked forward to it. However, he was also supposed to be enjoying himself, and the newly awakened ravenous bloodlust had interrupted his extracurriculars. It started with being embarrassed about his choice in sexual partners and his own pitiful state; it was being fed by the animalistic need to shed blood. He could not eat. He could not fuck. If he did not learn a balance, he would surely lose his mind.

_Maybe I am becoming a Legion demon,_ Dean thought dismally.

The waitress decided to come check on Dean at the wrong moment. Her voice made Dean’s muscles uncoil in a startled jump: “Can I get anything else for you?”

Without thinking, Dean grabbed her hair and smacked her face down onto the table. Despite his panic, he had to admit that was satisfying – she had rolled her eyes at him at one point and took way too damn long on getting him the water he needed. She deserved it, right?

She moaned under the table. Blood streamed down from her nostrils and from a gash beneath her eye. The people at the table across had yelped and went over to investigate. While one of the men comforted the waitress, the other grabbed Dean by the shirt collar and hauled him out of his booth. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” the man growled. Dean simply looked at him with blank, hollow eyes. The rest of the diners had started to notice. “We’re calling the cops.”

Dean blinked. The muffled screams of confusion told him people saw his black eyes. Without moving, Dean snapped the neck of the guy man-handling him, and flung the other guy across the room and into an occupied table. Dean picked up the waitress and repeated the skull cracking he did with the girl he boned.

Dean’s skull felt like it was going to explode. He felt a tugging at his bones, as if something were trying to separate his skeleton from his skin. He covered his ears and hunched over before wildly thrashing at whatever was closest. Then he heard it:

_“Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,”_ said a female voice from across the diner. 

He thought he heard a squish as his muscles contracted and relaxed over and over again. He looked around for the source of the exorcism and found an older woman with skin the color of mocha and hair blacker than the night and flecked with constellations of white. She had a cold expression on her face as the exorcism poured from her mouth. He went after her, flinging people out of the way, breaking necks, grabbing a steak knife and plunging it into an unfortunate bystander’s neck. Dean’s skull was close to cracking open like an egg. His bones felt like they were going to shatter. His muscles were contracting tighter and tighter. Dean had to stop and scream.

The exorcism was cut off short. A wet squish and a thump echoed through the diner. All the agony melted away. Dean opened his eyes to find two pairs of feet standing before him in a puddle of blood pouring from the woman who was performing the exorcism. Dean stood when he recognized at least one of the feet’s owners. She wore a small but toned, blonde, pretty meatsuit and a smug grin. 

“Ready for round two already?” Dean asked. The high of killing these people was still raging. He did not want to think about the crash.

“I bring a peace offering, Dean,” said Sheila. The girl next to her, long-haired and chubby, looked around rapidly, as if she were anticipating an attack. Her true face was missing half of her face and most of her skull, out of which grew two horns, and was scorched beyond recognition. 

“Is it this _beautiful_ creature?” Dean asked, jutting his chin at the creature in question. The ugly demon snapped her gaze to Dean and smiled wide, revealing fanged teeth and a forked tongue behind the mask of her human host. She licked her lips. Dean shivered. “I don’t accept.”

“You don’t remember me?” the demon crooned. In a blink she disappeared and reappeared behind Dean and wrapped her arms around him. Her teeth grazed her ear and her hands roamed down to his beltline. “Dean, you axe murderer, you deliciously demonized axe murderer.”

Only one woman had that pet-name for him, and the last time he saw her, she was wearing someone else. The last time he saw her human, she was delectably curvy and beautiful, and they were about to do the horizontal tango. “How could I forget you, Hazel, baby?” Dean purred. He turned quickly, grabbed her hair, and threw her to the ground. She hissed and was about to retaliate when she was stopped by a single command from Sheila to leave. 

“Play with the corpses, if you must,” Sheila added in a hiss. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Kill off your vessel for all I care. Leave us.”

Hazel disappeared and reappeared at the table at which Dean had been sitting. A waitress, who had been silently cowering this entire time, was found by Hazel. At least the waitress’s death was quick: Hazel snapped the woman’s neck as well as her other bones. It filled the silence like popcorn popping in the microwave. Dean found it easy to ignore.

“As I was saying,” Sheila continued. “I’m calling a truce. We are of far better use to each other as allies than we are dead – not that you could kill me, Winchester. Although you are a wonderful sparring partner.”

“Pissing me off ain’t gonna make me accept this truce, Fucking Whore,” Dean growled. He felt a heat rising from his fingertips. A bubbling in his boiling gut. The popping of broken bones followed by soft giggles sounded in the distance.

“And you kill so gracefully,” Sheila added silkily. Her wanton grin and hooded eyes made Dean raise his brow again. “I saw the security video of your massacre at the bar. Who knew you could make killing seem like such an art.”

“As much as I like the ass-kissing,” Dean said, “I don’t think it’s a sufficient peace offering. Get to it, babe.”

Sheila’s wanton smirk turned malicious quickly. Dean, this time, gave her his own seductive grin, and he even winked. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. “I am offering you your brother and Castiel” – she opened her eyes – “gift wrapped by yours truly. I was not the only one who viewed your little massacre, my darling Dean. Sam has made it known he is coming after you. He summoned me for help.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean sighed. He leaned against the nearest table. Sheila was waiting expectantly for an answer, and Dean stared at her, taking his time in deciding. He folded his arms. “Okay, you help me get rid of Sammy – then what? What’s the deal with the truce?”

“Like I said: we can benefit each other. I need Sam and Castiel” – Dean felt a pull at his navel, a lurch of his stomach at the name – “out of the way of my operations. They interrupt my business by killing off the demons who are priming souls for conversion. You have your own demonized needs to kill your brother and your once-upon-a-time angel that will surely satisfy that hungry bloodlust. In return for delivering them to you, you shall aid me in converting souls into Legion demons. You’ve had experience torturing souls in Hell. Converting them into Legion is going to be easy – and I daresay _fun_ for you, Winchester, as you have found a fondness for the art of killing.” 

Dean found himself nodding. The giddy warmth of excitement grew in his chest – he could satisfy the beast hell-bent on trying to remind him of his humanity and maybe get on with his new life. Even now he could feel it, the drumroll of the migraine, the growing pinprick of the knife snaking his way through his innards, the ache of his constricted heart. By mentioning Hell, Sheila both sold and terrified Dean. But he told himself: why be hindered by what once haunted him when he could turn it into his bitch? Why not turn it into something useful in his new life? He deserved to live it. After the sad excuse of a life he had before, why not live it?

Killing the reminders of his past, symbolized by the hulking figure of his brother and the sad eyes of his once almost lover, would surely help him along in the last bits of his transformation.

“As long as I get paid vacations,” Dean answered, “I’m in.”

Sheila snapped her fingers. The popping stopped. A shaking, wide-eyed, and grinning Hazel appeared beside her. “I will call upon you when it is time.” They vanished, leaving Dean amongst the carnage for which he was responsible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Way He Looks At Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQ3IYyv-lIg) \- Gone Girl Soundtrack


	25. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything seemed to slow down. Time crawled at a snail’s pace. Sheila lifted her claw-like hands. Castiel must have known what was coming, for he shouted for Sam’s attention and threw the grace. Sam’s blood was pounding in his ears as he reached for it.
> 
> And then he froze. Time, unfortunately, did not freeze with him.

As soon as Sheila vanished, Sam grabbed his phone and the key to the room from her windbreaker before exiting out the door. He knew he ought to have called Castiel to see where he was and warn him of the impending confrontation with Dean, but Sam could not help himself: his instinct was to call Johanna. Unfortunately, after two rings, the call went straight to her cheery voicemail. At the beep, which sounded like a screech in his ear, he tried in vain to keep his voice even: “Hey Johanna, hi – um.” He cleared his throat. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m doing good. At the lake. Um.” Awkward pause. “Listen, I want you to, um . . . Call me as soon as you can.” He closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He felt the hint of a headache forming between his eyebrows. He decided it would be best not to tell her she was in immediate danger; as long as he played it safe, she wouldn’t be. “Everything is fine, I just . . . something came up and I want to know you’re okay. Okay. Bye.”

Sam hung up and kicked a nearby rock, which bounced off the door of the Impala. Maybe Sam did not need Sheila to summon Dean; perhaps if Sam kept banging up the Impala with rocks, Dean would come and kill whoever was hurting his “baby.” Sam took a moment to breathe deeply and force his heart to stop its merciless pounding when his phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Johanna. Sam’s heart beat impossibly faster. _In class. Will call when at home._ Sam breathed a sigh of relief. She, for now, had the protection of being out in the open, just as Sam did. He put both hands against the hood of the Impala, hung his head, and took a few gulps of fresh air. 

With Johanna momentarily safe, Sam reminded himself he needed to be focused, alert, and, most of all, _smart_. He took one last breath and stood up straight. _Dean could arrive any moment_ , he told himself. _One thing at a time._ He opened the trunk and made a call to Castiel. 

“Where are you?” Castiel asked immediately.

“A lodge at Colorado’s Great Lake,” Sam answered. “Cas, where have you been?”

“There’s not much time; he’s growing impatient.” Sam stopped what he was doing at the word he. He held a gun in midair, which probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do with so many onlookers. “We’ve been trying to stay ahead of Sheila and find out where she’s been, but we’ve been following false trails. Where is she now? Is she with you?”

“She’s out setting a trial for Dean to follow to me,” Sam answered. He stuffed the bag of salt into his duffle a little more forcefully than he intended. “Look, Cas: you need to be here. I don’t know who this we you mentioned is, and I don’t know what you’re planning, but I need you to be here for this current, happening-right-now plan.” With everything he needed in his bag, he slammed the trunk close. “If things go south, I’m going to need backup that I can trust.”

Cas did not reply with what Sam wanted; instead, he urgently asked, “So Sheila is _not_ currently with you? She’s gone?”

Sam shifted the duffle bag filled with supplies in his hand uncomfortably. A strong sense of foreboding washed over him. “I told you: she is leading Dean here. _Right now._ ”

“Are you positive she left?” _I don’t like the sound of this._ “Because the company I need you to meet needs to be with just you. She cannot know you are meeting with them. She might kill you if she finds out.” _I_ really _don’t like the sound of this._

“Cas, _who are they?_ ”

“Which room are you in?”

“Five down from the parking lot, number three twenty-two, on the left.” Sam unlocked the door and paused with his hand on the handle. “Look, you might wanna hold off until I check in with her or something.” He swung the door open. “We don’t need her –”

“Sam,” said a very close person.

Sam stood in the doorway, phone in one hand, duffle bag in the other, and a sinking feeling in his stomach. His brain was temporarily frozen. No thoughts processed his brain; he only observed that Castiel was in his room along with a fairy-like girl with blonde hair and big blue eyes and a large man with deep tan skin in a suite. It wasn’t until he took a step forward that his brain rebooted and continued his train of thought: “—surprising us.”

“Sam Winchester,” the girl said. Her voice was soft and sweet, and she had a tone of admiration. She stepped forward and Sam gulped. His throat was uncomfortably dry. “It is so wonderful to see the face belonging to the man of whom so famously spoken.”

Though she was a few heads shorter than he was, and of a very delicate frame, Sam found himself shrinking back. He cleared his throat, ended the call on his phone, and closed the door behind him. “Thanks,” he coughed. His eyes darted between the girl and the man, who was barely shorter than he, Sam, was, and set the bag down by his feet. He stood tall to try and regain some dignity. “Who are you two?”

Castiel first introduced Abigail, the small, blonde girl with the dreamy look in her eyes. Sam thought, due to the fact she knew who Sam was and her socially unacceptable bouts of staring, she was most likely an angel when Castiel confirmed Sam was half-right: she was a Nephilim, a half-angel and half-human. Were the circumstances different, Sam would have jumped on the chance to question a Nephilim, for they were incredibly rare and had much ambiguity surrounding their race. His tongue, however, was feeling dry and quite useless, so he saved his questions for later.

Then came the moment Castiel introduced the ominous man with whom he traveled. _He_ has _to be an angel_ , Sam thought. It was not only the way the stranger held himself; it was the overwhelming aura of authority and power that washed off of his square-shouldered and stiff posture, the business-like glare upon his face. Castiel, as well, tipped Sam off: normally Castiel stood tall and at attention – the soldier at ease – but in the presence of this supposed angel he was tense and cautious. It both surprised and frightened Sam, and he felt a new lump of writhing anxiety worming its way around his insides.

“This, Sam,” Castiel said, “is an archangel.” Sam extended his hand, and the man, after a moment (in which Sam noticed Castiel’s rigid posture), took it. “His name is Sariel.” Were the archangel a regular human, Sam might have crushed his fingers with the sudden shock. Instead, the archangel only raised an eyebrow at the sudden pressure, and Sam did a double-take like an idiot. “He’s been disguised as Zadkiel this whole time.”

Sam’s lungs switched places with his stomach and he blinked a few times as if dirt flew into his eyes. His brain, once again failing him, shut off, and all he could register was the fact that he wanted to laugh. Of all the luck he and Castiel have had, amongst all the shit and grime and _“Fuck yous”_ from fate herself, they finally got _something_ worthwhile. Sam felt a nervous and blind-sided giddiness that made him want to go buy a lottery ticket and drink celebratory whiskey till he blacked out. Amongst the shock of finding Sariel very much alive ( _and very not dead,_ he added in his jittery shock), Sam could not help but think, _I was fucking_ right _about Zadkiel!_

In his mind’s eye, Sam could see himself saying something clever and maintaining some of his self-respect. Maybe even something to defend Castiel for what Sariel – as Zadkiel – did to him. It was merely a fantasy, for what came out of Sam’s mouth was far from eloquent: “Well, fuck.”

Abigail giggled. Sariel remained stiff and cold, but at least he was not visibly offended. Sam wanted to go drown himself in the lake.

In a swift attempt to change the subject, Sam cleared his throat, turned to Castiel, and said, “I can see why you didn’t want Sheila to know. She might not be entirely pleased about a, um . . .” Sam looked at Abigail and it dawned on him: she must be the Nephilim child of Sariel and Dalya, Sheila’s sister. Her niece. “Family reunion,” he finished, followed quickly by a solemn nod from Abigail.

“Castiel said you have made plans with her,” Sariel said. His voice was deep and commanding; it was the kind of bass voice that resonated within one’s chest. “What have you planned?”

Sam immediately straightened himself out and squared his shoulders. He had to make up for his embarrassing introduction. He explained his usual tactics of hiding from Dean – picking an expensive room at a place he would normally avoid, like well-known hotels or busy places – and how, being his brother, Dean would notice that it was Sam immediately. Sheila was going to go make herself known and lure Dean in. He’d be even more inclined to attack if he knew Sheila was with Sam, and once he made his move, there would be an ambush waiting for him.

“I was thinking about salting everything but the front door,” Sam said as he finished the third and last devil’s trap in the center of the room, “so he can get in and we can make sure he stays in this room if he happens to get out of any devil’s traps.”

“And what of Castiel?” Sariel finally spoke. “Did Liora” – _that’s Sheila,_ Sam recalled – “take Castiel into account of the plan?”

“Not really,” Sam answered. He looked at Castiel with an upturned brow and an apology in his eyes. “I mentioned your grace and how it would help, but she snapped at me. I tried pushing, but . . .” Sam cast a cautious glance towards Sariel. He wouldn’t know who they’re talking about anyway. “She had already threatened Johanna’s safety once. You are already on the line. I couldn’t push more.”

“I’m sure your short temper where she’s concerned did not help,” Castiel added. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, and Sam, always appreciative of Castiel’s bluntness, gave a twitch of a grin in return.

Sariel cleared his throat impatiently. Abigail, who had sat down during Sam’s discussion of the plan, shot a warning glance at her father. Sariel took notice of her glower and softened his stiff shoulders. Sam decided he liked her. “Does she have any suspicions of where Castiel is now?”

“She just knows I wasn’t able to get a hold of him, but she doesn’t know where he is.” Sam started lining the windows with salt. “If anything, she probably thinks he’s back at our hotel room.”

Sariel said not a word. He walked to the window Sam just finished lining with salt and peeked out the curtains with narrowed eyes. “What do you plan to do with Liora after you capture your brother?”

Sam went to the bedroom door and lined it with salt. He was purposefully not meeting the archangel’s eyes. In all honesty, Sam had not even thought about what he was going to do after Dean was caught. _Stay alive, for one,_ he thought. It was obvious he was going to cure his brother, and he knew he was going to the bunker to do so, but what was to be done about Sheila? All he knew was that he was going to form a plan to kill her and get Castiel’s grace back.

So that is what he told Sariel. “I made this current deal with her – she helps me get Dean, I help her with deals somehow – to not only have an easier chance at curing my brother, but to keep her in my sights. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” He paused to get the spray paint from the duffle bag and gave it a shake. “After I cured Dean, I was going to find out what she’s doing with the Legion – if anything – and then find a way to kill her, all the Legion, and get Castiel his grace.”

“We know exactly what she is doing with the Legion,” Sariel muttered. His eyes met Sam’s. Castiel’s hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. The edge of Sam’s vision was turning as red as the spray paint in his hands. _They knew this whole time?_ he thought. “And she cannot be allowed to be anywhere near you during Dean’s cure. You ought not to have allowed her to help with your brother.” Sam’s stomach dropped to his feet. “You say she is luring Dean here? She is most likely –”

But Sam did not get to hear what Sheila might have been doing, for in that moment, Sariel emitted a sudden burst of bright white-gold light as the shadow of his three great wings decorated the wall behind him. His eyes lit up with the familiar sky blue of an angel. Sam whipped around just as Abigail came to her feet in less than a blink. Behind him was a blank-faced, deadly-still, pearly white-eyed Sheila, staring with fathomless eyes at Sariel. Sam, whose heart was now in his throat, backed away as if he had found himself next to a snake coiled and ready to strike. Castiel put himself between Sam and Sheila.

Nobody else moved. Sariel remained stiller than a statue, and the beautiful glow around him grew steadily brighter. The only part of him that moved were his fists, clenched so tight they shook as if ready to explode. Sheila was a statue for all Sam knew: she was pale and beautiful and looking ready to crack. The tension that hung in the air was thicker than butter. He could not breathe. He could not feel his fingertips. The spray paint fell to the floor with a clunk so loud it was like a firecracker. His muscles were so tightly coiled they cramped and throbbed. For the first time in his life, his body reacted not to the fight-or-flight response, but froze in place, too riddled with fear to even move.

Without warning, Sheila had crossed the short distance between her and Sariel and attacked. Sariel was quick and vanished, only to reappear inches from Sam and Castiel. The only sound was the hiss of an angel blade missing its mark and Sheila’s ravenous growl. The beating of Sam’s heart was the drumbeat announcing war. Abigail pushed Sam and Castiel against the nearest wall and used herself as a shield while the demon and archangel fought in rhythm to Sam’s heart. Every swipe of the blade and sweeping dodge was in tune to the beat, and their blindingly fast fighting was more like a ballet reaching its crescendo. Dean and Sheila’s fight was tactless, dirty, and clumsy compared to the fight before Sam. He was utterly entranced but also petrified with fear of the unknown.

Finally there was a lull in the battle, and a panting Sheila was once again by the door. “You dare show your face to me!” she shouted. Before Sam could blink, the swish of an angel blade pierced his ears, and Sariel and Sheila had switched places. “After everything you’ve done!” Another blink. A burst of flame so close Sam felt his skin blistering. Sheila’s back stood only inches from him. _“You killed her!”_

“Liora, _listen!_ ” Sariel shouted. Tears streamed down Sheila’s face. “I didn’t kill her!”

_“Liar!”_ Sheila roared.

“What happened to Dalya –”

Sheila covered her ears and then began to pull at her hair. She moaned, “No,” repeatedly before lashing out at Sariel with the angel blade. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were red with tears. She tried to hit a protesting Sariel again and managed to punch a hole through the wall.

“I was trying to save her!” Sariel cried. He grabbed Sheila’s wrist mid-swing. She screamed and writhed, but she was not strong enough to escape his grip. Over her animalistic screams of protest, Sariel continued with watery eyes: “After Barak thought he killed me I went to save her. I didn’t know what it would do – but I tried to _save her_ , Liora, you know this to be true!”

A loud pop filled the room and Sariel threw Sheila’s wrist aside. His palm was bloody. Sam looked at Sheila and found she had broken her own wrist to set herself free. She looked at her wrist – a milky bone poked out from beneath her broken and bleeding skin – and was suddenly transfixed. She shook her head and growled, as if to clear her head, before she slammed her wrist against a wall to right the broken bone. Sam flinched.

“All you did,” Sheila bawled, “was kill her. You didn’t think that your angel _filth_ would _kill her!_ ”

Sheila’s cheeks, flushed from anger, shone brightly with fresh tears streaming from her pearly white eyes. She sobbed and growled as the fighting resumed. Abigail’s eyes, glowing a dull gray, followed her father and her aunt as they resumed their dance; her breathing was so heavy her chest rose and fell rapidly. Sam could tell she desperately wanted to intervene, but she was too invested in protecting Sam and Castiel to interrupt the dance. Sam, however, having been in a similar situation, knew what he could do to stop them. He looked over at Castiel and saw his brow furrowed in thought as he watched the fighting – no, not the fighting, his _grace_ , hanging from Sheila's neck. Castiel’s intense blue eyes met Sam’s, and a moment of near-telepathy passed between them: both were thinking of the same tactic they had used against Dean and Sheila before. Sam’s heart was going wild, and his insides churned with anticipation. The stakes were higher this time. 

He, knowing Castiel shared his readiness to take that risk, nodded at his companion.

Sam said a quick apology to Abigail before shoving her aside. It was he, this time, who began the exorcism; however, unlike last time where Sheila was the essence of composure, the she-demon began to scream immediately. It was the type of scream that shredded the screamer’s vocal cords and made one’s ears ring. Sariel paused for only a moment to see what had caused her to scream with an upturned brow of worry etched onto his face. Sheila, with a look of rage and agony, took advantage of that moment and swung her angel blade. Sam barely had time to process that Sheila was attacking before Abigail shouted for her father and flung herself in the way of the blade. Sariel screamed his daughter’s name as she fell to the ground with a bloody _thunk_. Sam held his breath and let it out in a brief moment of relief: Abigail was not dead, but the blade had found its home in her shoulder, and a faint blue glow emitted from the wound.

Sheila panted heavily like a wounded animal and stared at Abigail with a mixture of wide-eyed fury and dread. Castiel did not waste time; he lunged for Sheila and ripped the thin gold chain from around her neck, and the vile swung widely. Sheila crashed against the wall and stared up at the vile swinging above her in disbelief before she stood blindingly fast with white-eyed wrath.

Everything seemed to slow down. Time crawled at a snail’s pace. Sheila lifted her claw-like hands. Castiel must have known what was coming, for he shouted for Sam’s attention and threw the grace. Sam’s blood was pounding in his ears as he reached for it.

And then he froze. Time, unfortunately, did not freeze with him.

It all happened in a moment: Sheila grabbed Castiel’s jaw in her hands and gave a sharp twist. A wet crack filled the room. Castiel fell to the ground with his neck twisted gruesomely out of place. His eyes were still wide open, as if watching what was happening to Sam in that very same moment: A wispy blue light was encircling him like a ribbon. Sheila had lifted her hand to do God knows what until she stopped and looked down in fear. Sam followed her gaze and saw that the vile had shattered and was now bleeding grace. 

_Go revive Cas_ , he thought with a dry gulp. He looked from the tip of grace now hovering above him and down to Castiel. _He can’t die. Not now._

The grace had other plans. 

A force unknown to him wrenched his mouth open and the grace slipped inside. It was like swallowing fire. Sam would have screamed had his lungs not been scorched by the grace’s fire. It trailed through his every limb, filling every vein, burning the very cells within him, leaving no part of him untouched. His bones began to crack like wood in a bonfire. A pain so sharp it nearly blinded him made its home at his shoulder blades. He felt his skin tear as bones burst through the wounds. Hot blood leaked down his back and sizzled. _I’m going to die_ , he thought. _This is where I die._ He could see the pure blue-white light of Heaven clouding his vision. The fire in his limbs, his veins, his cells, was replaced by the relief of cold water, and he felt cleansed.

The numbness soon followed. Heaven’s light left his eyes. A wave of pure energy washed over him. His body felt heavy and he slumped beneath a new weight at his back. When he rolled his shoulders he felt the pull of a stranger tendon and heard a ruffle of feathers. He opened his eyes, craned his neck, and nearly fell to his knees in shock: behind him were two great white wings with feathers dipped in ink. Sam began to hyperventilate, and his hands went numb with the build-up of energy, terror, and righteous rage. He looked around for answers and found horror before him.

A woman-like figure with a body that burned and glowed like embers stared at him with almond-shaped, pearly white eyes. Its lips were torn with shredded stitches and skin. It possessed both an ethereal beauty and terrible repulsion that was still recognizable behind the mask it wore of a beautiful blonde woman. Before him was Sheila’s true form. Behind her was a massive creature with three immense copper wings and a body clothed in Heaven’s pure blue-white glow. All this told him it was Sariel. The body lying before the archangel had a soul writhing with angelic energy. That had to be Abigail. 

The pieces were fitting together; the realization of what was happening to him was becoming clearer. Sam felt the power pulsating within him – and he wanted to test it.

He reached out his hand to Castiel. Sheila flinched, thinking he was reaching for her, but soon realized what Sam was trying to do. His whole arm burned as Castiel’s chest jolted upward, as if his heart was attempting to leap from his chest, and slumped back down. He let out a loud and wheezing gasp as he came back to life. Sheila clenched her fist. The walls cracked. Though his arm burned as if he had dipped it into a fire, Sam grinned in triumph. 

In an instant, his hand was clenched around her delicate throat, and her meatsuit’s skin sizzled beneath his fingertips. She, however, did not howl in pain, nor did she show any sign of agony. Instead, she whispered, “You’ll regret this, Sam Winchester.” She gazed at Sariel from the corner of her eyes. “You’ll _all_ regret this!”

And then she vanished. 

The flesh on Sam’s hands felt like it was melting off his bones. He clutched them to his chest with a muffled yelp of pain. The wings on his back snapped out to their full length and their feathers spread wide. Sariel approached Sam with small, careful steps, and with his hands up to show surrender. “Do not use your powers anymore, Sam,” Sariel commanded, though his voice was less sharp than before. He was calm. Treating Sam like a scared, cornered animal. “Let me help you.”

Sam felt the feathers in his wings puff out in tune with the building of his sudden fury. “I don’t need your help,” he snarled. He saw the shadow of his glowing blue eyes reflected in Sariel’s. “I _need_ to use this” – he hissed as he held out his hands, where the energy was collected – “to get Sheila. She –”

Sam froze. In his mind’s eye, he remembered Sheila’s threat: _“If I lose my hands, Johanna loses hers and whatever else I choose.”_ Sam knew if he stepped a toe out of line she would punish Johanna. She said he would regret this – and by this, she meant turning into an . . . an angel. Now that his mind was clear and the pain in his hands had slithered to his arms, he was hit by the full realization of what had just happened to him. He somehow absorbed Castiel’s grace and was now in possession of angelic magic. His face grew hot. His stomach boiled. His heart was pounding so hard it sounded like the whirring blades of a helicopter in his ears.

He was given a chance to stop Sheila and catch Dean on his own. He didn’t need Sariel or Abigail or Castiel. He could do it himself.

“Sam,” Castiel coughed. Sam snapped out of his epiphany and stared at the newly revived human. He leaned against the wall nearest him with his head lolling to the side. “Don’t” – he panted – “go after Sheila. Don’t do” – pant – “anything else. You _cannot_ use anymore angelic magic –”

“But I can save Johanna,” Sam interrupted before he was hit by a violent coughing fit. His lungs were roasting. “Sheila’s going after her. I can save her and catch Dean.”

“ _No_ , Sam!” Castiel shouted. He attempted to stand but cried out in pain and doubled over. He slumped against the wall, clutching his side. Sam, all the while, was burning alive all over again. “We only have so much time” – he groaned as he attempted to stand once again – “until the grace destroys you. Do you remember what happened to Anna when her grace returned to her?”

How could he forget? White-blue light poured from her every orifice and she burst into a star. But it happened instantaneously with her. Sam, despite his chest becoming what felt like the home to a supernova, was still intact.

“The grace is still transforming you, and when it is finished, you will be vaporized,” Sariel explained. 

“The more you use your powers,” Castiel added, “the quicker you turn, and the quicker we lose you.”

But Sam had already made up his mind: he could not let Johanna pay for his offenses against Sheila. He spread his sore wings wide.

“I can do this, Cas.”

Castiel reached for Sam. “Sam, please!” His shout was fueled by a desperate need and pain.

“I can save them both!” 

Ignoring Castiel’s and Sariel’s protests, Sam teleported to Johanna’s house, where he heard screams from within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter:  
> Sam's Transformation / [Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mw2kKyJu9gY) \- Awolnation


	26. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was then that Sam’s eyes, veiled in Heaven’s light, met Dean’s. Dean felt his eyes turn black instinctually. Surely Sam saw what had become of his brother’s soul; surely his new nature would force him to attack. Instead his face contorted in pain and his eyes filled to the brim with a sorrow that Dean could not stand. He held the knife to Johanna’s throat and she whimpered like a dog with its tail between its legs.

As soon as his feet touched the ground, Dean yanked his arm from Hazel’s bone-crushing grasp. Her charred, fleshy hand sunk back to her side, and she simply stared at Dean with wide, sunken black eyes. To keep himself from staring back into those unfathomable eyes, he looked around the house to which he was summoned by Sheila. He stood in the middle of a white-walled kitchen bathed in sunlight from large windows in the pastel-colored living room before him. In the distance he heard a soft whimpering, and he stepped through the living room to the stairs before the front door. He looked to Hazel to ask what the whimpering was, and to whom the house belonged, but he regretted looking at her: she was stretching her fingers, the ones she used to hold Dean as they teleported, and closing them into a fist slowly, all while staring at Dean with an opened mouth. Drool dribbled down her chin. When Dean gave her a look, she disappeared and reappeared inches before him, giggling and looking up the stairs. His lip curled in disgust and he leaned away from her.

Just then a scream echoed through the house, a woman’s high-pitched, agonized scream. It came from upstairs. _Does this have to do with Sam?_ Dean asked himself. Hazel stopped her giggling, stood rigid as a board. She whispered, “This way,” and teleported up the stairs. Dean decided to walk.

An entertainment room was at the top of the stairs, complete with movie posters, a pool table, and a rather large TV. Down the hall were family photos Dean didn’t bother to look at. Two doors to his left. One door at the end to the wall. Two to his right. The last door on the right was left cracked, and muffled sobbing leaked through. Dean guessed that was where Sheila was and took cautious but curious steps forward.

The she-demon, with a bloody knife in hand and white, wild eyes, stood before a woman tied to a chair. Her skin was milk chocolate and her hair was in corkscrew curls that quivered with her muffled sobbing.

“Come in, Dean,” Sheila greeted, as if this were a casual meeting. She, however, looked anything but casual: it was not her crimson-stained clothes nor the well-used knife dripping blood onto the carpet; it was her tremoring hands and legs. She rolled her neck in the reptilian way Dean had seen most Legion do. Something was off with her. “Make yourself comfortable. I was just warming her up for you.” Sheila grabbed the edges of the chair and twisted the young girl around. Dean raised a brow. “You remember Johanna, don’t you?”

Johanna’s mouth was gagged, and her eye, the one not swollen and bruised, was spilling over with fat tears. Her bottom lip was split open; blood ran down her chin. Her clothes were covered in splashes of crimson; her skin littered with wounds of various sizes. The last time Dean saw Johanna was when he freed her from being possessed by Hazel (who now sat in the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest while she rocked back and forth). He had to leave her unconscious as he raced back to rescue Sam and Castiel then. Now he watched her as she bled and cried for mercy. 

Sheila walked around and stroked Johanna’s cheek with the edge of the knife. Johanna flinched. “Isn’t she pretty?” Sheila asked. “No wonder your brother is so fond of her.” Dean answered his previously asked question: Johanna was the unfortunate trap for Sam’s capture and ultimate death. “Such smooth skin,” Sheila went on. “Cuts like butter.” Johanna yelped as Sheila nicked the cheek she stroked with the knife. Blood pooled at the wound and ran down her face like tears. Sheila stared at the wound with such focus that she stood stiffer than a board.

Dean cleared his throat. “You gonna fill me in on the plan to get Sam over here or shall I leave you to your business?”

“In light of recent events,” Sheila answered, and she rolled her neck again, “the motivation for the plans have changed. Your brother needs to be punished. He has committed a great offense to me.” She grabbed a fistful of Johanna’s hair and yanked it to expose the young girl’s neck, and pressed the edge of the knife against the soft skin of the girl’s throat. Johanna breathed heavily in near hyperventilation; her throat bobbed against the knife. “I warned him” Sheila continued in a near whisper. “I told him if he wronged me she would suffer the consequences.”

Dean watched Johanna’s thrumming pulse. A sharp pain shot up his neck, and he rolled his shoulders to rid himself the tension. His fingers ached to grab the knife. The sight of a live pulse had awoken the bloodlust within. “What exactly did Sammy do?”

“I believed it to be a myth,” Sheila mumbled to herself. She twitched and rolled her neck again. Hazel suddenly giggled from her corner, but went silent again. “I heard only rumors. I did not know it could be true.”

“C’mon, spit it out!” Dean snapped. The pain turned into thousands of bee stings along his neck and to his brain. He wanted to get this over with. 

“He absorbed angel grace and is now an angel.” 

Dean’s stomach dropped to the floor. The pain was momentarily forgotten. “How is that even possible?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The knife in her hand started to sink lower and lower as she took a few steps forward. Down the knife went, past Johanna’s chest, resting on her stomach, hovering above the fatty part of her thigh. “It’s going to kill him in the end.”

_As long as he ends up dead_ , Dean thought. His mouth had opened to speak those very words, but the ringing in his ears threatened to become a gong. The words could not leave his mouth.

Before the gong in his brain could sing its song with full force, Johanna began to sob, and Sheila chuckled. “Oh yes, it’ll kill him,” she softly said, as if speaking to herself, “the grace will burn him from the inside out.” Dean could not help but understand how that felt, although it was not grace that burned him alive; it was his own soul. “And you, Dean,” Sheila addressed. The knife broke through the jeans and Johanna yelped. A tiny puddle of crimson pooled at the break. “You have a very important part to play.” She looked up at Johanna’s tear-filled eyes. “Sam will come; he will think himself powerful, but he will find himself weak.” The knife sunk deeper into Johanna’s thigh; more blood poured from her wound, and more screams were muffled against the gag. “I will make him watch as you rip her to shreds.”

Sheila turned her ethereal face towards Dean and grinned wide. He recoiled in revulsion. Her mouth, the mouth of her demon form, stretched far past what her mouth ought to have been stretched, and bits of her jaw bone peeked through the torn flesh. Her white almond-shaped eyes were wide and leaking blood. She shivered as though cold, though demons do not feel the cold. He could see the stitches holding her together breaking like the ones at her lips. Sam’s transformation was the straw that broke the camel’s back; the bloodlust was awoken in Sheila as it had been in Dean.

“You will tear out her soul as Sam watches,” Sheila continued, and she turned back towards Johanna. Without warning, she plunged the knife deeper, and Johanna’s flesh squished as blood spilled over her leg like a waterfall. Her scream, though muffled by the gag, was still loud enough to echo through the room. Her throat, however, was hoarse from the constant screaming, and her scream broke off in dry cracks. She sobbed.

“And when you die, child,” Sheila whispered, and she began to twist the knife, “Sam will die, too.” Johanna wailed and moaned, and her head lolled to the side. Her skin was pale. “So you will want to stay awake.”

The hungry beast that was bloodlust poked its head up and sniffed the air. The scent of copper and rust excited Dean. He felt the jittery need to draw blood. His fingers clenched and unclenched. His mouth went dry. Part of him was wishing Sam would make his appearance already so that he may begin carving the girl into ribbons. He wanted to feel his hands slick with her blood as he reached inside her and pulled out her soul. He wanted to see the light leave her eyes. He could see, in his mind’s eye, making the last slice across this young girl’s neck as Sam watched. Sam, with eyes as blue as Heaven’s light, and a shadow of wings behind him, suddenly burning and screaming and – 

Dean slumped to the floor in a sudden cry of pain. He clutched his head and closed his eyes tight. A jackhammer-like throbbing had found its pleasure in attacking Dean’s skull, and a chorus of ominous church bells clanged in his head. His chest felt tight as though he were suffocating, and he gasped as though he had submerged himself in water. _What is happening?_ he shouted over the bells. _Why is this happening?_

Behind the church bells was the image of Sam dying – but it wasn’t the fantasy of Sam weak and burning alive; rather, it was Sam falling to his knees on the dirt path amongst broken and rotted wood buildings, and a man running away with Sam’s blood on his knife. Sam’s face was young and his hair was short. He was falling. Falling. Even when Dean caught him, even when he told Sammy he’d be okay, he couldn’t catch him in time. It was the first time Sam died. That fiery need to keep his brother alive no matter what the cost was so engrained in Dean that even when he envisioned Sam’s fantasized death, Dean’s soul, though demonized, punished him. Reminded him of the deeply imbedded pain of his brother’s loss.

The church bells stopped. The jackhammer ceased its digging. Was Sam’s death not the reason why he partnered with Sheila? _Didn’t you agree to kill Sam?_ he asked himself. He paused. Inhale. _Can I let Sam die?_ echoed through Dean’s skull. Exhale.

“He is here, Dean!” Sheila shouted. “Get up, you fool, get up!”

Dean only registered so much; his brain had shut out all noise but the bells and the memory of the Impala’s tires screeching as he drove to make the deal to sell his soul all those years ago. Muffled beyond that was banging and screaming that was not from Johanna. He looked to the corner Hazel was in and found her gone. A crash echoed through the house and a high-pitched whining sang from outside the door. Dean recognized it immediately as angelic magic. He recognized Sam’s shout just as a bright flash of blue-white light filtered through the cracked door.

Dean felt a moment of clarity. He could not deny that the need to protect Sam – to keep him from dying at any cost to himself – was imbedded in his soul like a piece of shrapnel too dangerous to remove. But what had that gotten him? He condemned his soul to Hell for his brother; he sentenced himself to a gruesome and gory death for his brother to live. Sam was a part of his life that needed to be cut off like a diseased limb in order to move on. Dean needed this – he needed to move on with his new life. Sheila was offering a path down which he could tread with a balance of blood and sanity. As long as Sam and Castiel lived, Dean would keep running down the path that was full of relentless clanging in his head and a twisting knife in his gut. 

_Can I let Sam die?_ he asked himself once more. Another iridescent blue-white light filtered through the cracked door while a final scream of death filled the house. A body fell to the ground. Sam’s footsteps approached. It’ll be like Benny, Dean thought. He accepted the knife from Sheila, and she giggled. Her body contorted – elbows jutted out in odd positions, neck bent in a way it shouldn’t – as her giggling continued. Painful. Like chopping off that diseased limb. Johanna watched the door and began shrieking and shaking her head while Sheila quivered. _But it’ll end. I’ll kill Sam_ – the whining of energy got louder the closer the footsteps became – _and I’ll kill Cas_. Sheila began to laugh, slow at first before it began to build. Johanna tried to shout something that sounded like, “No!” but her gag prevented her from speaking properly.

_Then I’ll be truly free._

A creature draped in Heaven’s light burst through the door with white wings dipped in ink spread wide. A wave of energy exploded the door in a shower of splinters, and a fiery wave of heat rolled through the room. Dean found it hard to look at the creature’s wings, for they were bathed in a purity too profound and too bright to handle. Staring at the face was no better, for though it had Sam’s wide, concerned eyes, they glowed blue-white like an angel’s, and Dean found it hard to believe. Where once Dean saw Sam’s soul alone and thriving, it was now writhing beneath the heavy weight of Heaven’s light. The cocktail of fear and anger made Dean’s stomach boil.

“You’re dead, Sheila,” Sam growled, tearing his eyes away from Johanna. He failed to acknowledge her stomping foot and vigorously shaking head in a plea to stop. _“You hear me?!”_

It was then that Sam’s eyes, veiled in Heaven’s light, met Dean’s, and Dean felt his eyes turn black instinctually. Surely Sam saw what had become of his brother’s soul. Surely his new nature would force him to attack. Instead his face contorted in pain and his eyes filled to the brim with a sorrow that Dean could not stand. He held the knife to Johanna’s throat and she whimpered like a dog with its tail between its legs.

The feathers on Sam’s wings puffed out to make him look all the more massive. His mouth twitched and he bared his teeth with anger that leaked to his core and rolled off him in sweltering angelic magic. Dean saw his brother’s soul writhe as if being electrocuted. He ignored the thrumming of his dead heart. Sheila’s prediction about Sam’s death seemed obvious now, but Dean pushed down the rising feeling of worry and replaced it with the anticipation flowing through his veins. This was the first step to gaining his long-awaited untethered freedom. _This is what has to be done_ , Dean reassured himself.

Sheila made the first move to attack. Sam moved blindingly fast and with surprising grace as he dodged Sheila’s swipe of her angel blade. Dean recognized his brother’s fighting style well, and he predicted Sam’s moves. Sheila narrowly escaped many of Sam’s attempts at burning her demon form out of her meatsuit. It was not long, however, until Sam began to crumble beneath the weight of the suffocating grace within him. Dean’s stomach roiled with eagerness. His fingers itched to drive the knife into Johanna’s chest; the anticipation of Sam’s eminent death steadied his hand. When Sam slumped to his knees and stared at Johanna, Dean lifted the knife. Against the tide of grief was a rushing sense of relief. It was going to end. _Is it finally going to end?_

Then he met a pair of sad, tired baby blue eyes that materialized before him. Dean dropped the knife. He felt his muscles paralyze. Before him stood Castiel with two others – one like Sam, clothed in Heaven, and another who looked human – that Dean could barely register. All he could see was Cas. Dean felt like he was drowning. Like he was hit with a harpoon to the gut. Like a sledgehammer crushed his skull between it and a wall.

He didn’t think. He just reacted.

Dean attempted to wrap his hands around Castiel’s neck. Castiel, however, was a seasoned fighter, and though Dean managed to grab hold, he could not keep it. Castiel seized one of Dean’s wrists and twisted. There was a pop. Dean growled like an animal and brought his knee up to Castiel’s gut. Though the other man doubled-over and fell to the ground with a cough, he swung his leg. Dean fell to the ground with a wrathful cry. Castiel was barely able to move when Dean wrapped his legs around the other man’s neck in a chokehold to keep him subdued. If Castiel had stopped squirming, Dean could have gotten a good twist. He could barely hear the envisioned wet crack of the other man’s breaking neck in his mind. He wanted the pain in his demonized soul to stop. It’s like Benny, Dean reassured himself. Castiel kept trying to wiggle free. _Ripping off a band-aid. It’ll be over soon._

It was like someone had dunked Dean in a pool of boiling water. He wailed and his body went limp with the blinding pain. Water trickled down his neck and left a trail of sizzling skin. After the flash of pain was gone and he was left blistering, he saw Castiel holding a flask. He wasn’t trying to wriggle free - _he was playing dirty,_ Dean thought. He lunged and pinned Castiel to the wall with his forearm pressed against Castiel’s neck. Their noses brushed. Hot, strangled breath hit Dean’s mouth. His skin felt like it was melting off. Castiel flung more holy water, and Dean screamed in Castiel’s ear – but he did not let go of the former angel. His face was alarmingly calm, and he dumped the rest of the holy water on Dean. The demon refused to let go. If anything, he pressed harder against Castiel’s neck and clutched the man’s shirt while the holy water scorched his bones. His muscles were going weak from the white-hot pain.

The next thing Dean knew, he was on the ground with his back against the wall and his arms twisted behind his back. He attempted to stand but his hands were bound by something cold and metallic. He opened his eyes and tried to look behind him. All he saw was a bone protruding from his shoulder and the wall against which he leaned. He pulled against the restraints but they did not budge. He was trapped.

“Let me go!” he shouted at the man before him. The man with grief written in his sky blue eyes. Dean growled while he pulled at the restraints once more. His eyes were black. The walls cracked around him. His wrists were rubbed raw with his struggling. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam laying on the ground with his wings draped over his unmoving form. Sheila’s wrists were shackled and a chain led to the other man – another angel – with three copper wings that burned with heavenly light. This was defeat, but Dean was having none of it: he rammed his head over and over against the wall and bellowed, _“Let me go!”_

Castiel knelt down to Dean’s level. Dean stopped ramming his head against the wall and stared. His breath came out in heavy pants. “No, Dean,” Castiel breathed. He reached out to grab Dean’s arm. The demon neither flinched nor attacked. He simply let his former angel grab his arm. “It’s time.” Dean allowed himself to be lifted off the ground. He leaned against the wall, panting for breath and finally feeling the gong resonating within his bruised skull. Castiel did not move his hand. “It’s time to be cured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm rubbish at updating, but life is life, and shitty internet connection will make you prioritize what you are willing to wait too long to load :) We're nearing the end, though, so part of it is me coming to terms with the bittersweet final upload!
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feel free to leave comments if you have anything to say <3


	27. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters had been screaming for so long that when one of them stopped Castiel’s heart beat so violently the sound resonated through his skull. He stood and held his breath, listening closely to which Winchester ceased his screaming. If it was Dean, it would only mean that he had given up his threats and awaited his trial. If it was Sam, however . . . Castiel could not stand to think of what it meant.

They were screaming.

One scream came from a man slowly burning alive from the inside out while an archangel sat by his bedside and attempted keep him alive. Sariel had to reach inside and touch the man’s soul – which in itself was a dangerous procedure for any human. Defusing a live bomb. But Sariel had to do more than touch the soul; he had to try and remove the grace like a cancerous tumor before it completed its task of transforming its new host, Sam, into an angel. It was a delicate procedure; a simple twitch of the hand and the human could die. The grace did not see this transformation as murder. It only recognized a trace of an angel nearby – what measly amount of grace was left over from Sam’s possession by Lucifer – and attached itself. Latched on like a parasite to a host. Doing its duty by giving its host angelic powers. When its host was purely human – not an angel turned human, like Castiel was – then it had to kill the host before it began its life anew. Once again, Castiel viewed his grace not like the envious purity it was, but a disease.

The other scream echoed through the Bunker’s halls. It was a mixture of curses and threats, of animalistic growls and savage snarls from a human so unrecognizable that Castiel ached for who the man had been. It was now easy to see that the Dean Castiel knew was consumed by the blackness within, for he looked and sounded and acted like a demon. 

In the center of a devil’s trap tied to a chair and restrained with a chain etched with demon-trapping sygils sat Dean. Caged like a wild animal. Subdued by chains. Castiel was surprised they hadn’t muzzled him. _Maybe we should have_ , he thought with a flinch at the new bout of rage pouring from Dean’s prison, reverberating off the walls, surrounding Castiel like a poisonous gas. Sam’s unbearable screams of agony joined Dean’s in a chorus of madness and suffering. Castiel continued to sit in Dean’s room and stare at the empty doorway waiting for what he did not know. He was only waiting.

The Winchesters had been screaming for so long that when one of them stopped Castiel’s heart beat so violently the sound resonated through his skull. He stood and held his breath, listening closely to which Winchester ceased his screaming. If it was Dean, it would only mean that he had given up his threats and awaited his trial. If it was Sam, however . . . Castiel could not stand to think of what it meant. 

He was forced to think of it when Sariel appeared in the doorway. His legs caved in.

“He is well,” Sariel reassured him. He reached out his hand for Castiel. “I successfully removed the grace.” Castiel went numb with relief. “He will not wake for a few hours yet.”

Castiel took Sariel’s hand and used him as support as he stood. “Can I see him?”

Sariel did not reply, but instead brought Castiel in a mere blink to the main room where they had, in a hasty panic, cleared one of the tables and used it as an unconventional operation table. Sam lay upon it shining with sweat and breathing slowly and evenly. Small gashes decorated his ribs and cheek. Abigail was placing her jacket beneath Sam’s head, and gave Castiel and her father a solemn grin when she noticed them. Castiel returned it and went to sit beside Sam. How he wished he had his grace to heal –

“Where’s my grace?” he asked. Sariel and Abigail exchanged glances. Castiel felt a wave of foreboding wash over him; his stomach dropped to his feet. In place of it was a burst of flame – of ire. “Where is it?” he demanded. 

Abigail pulled something out from within her blouse: a fluorescent vile swirling with white-blue attached to a golden chain. Castiel could not decide what was more dominant: his desire or his repulsion for the grace. It had the power to both kill and heal Sam. It could destroy and revive that which it had destroyed. A miracle in a bottle; a hurricane trapped in a vile.

“We cannot give you back your grace, Castiel,” said Abigail in a low near-whisper. She let the chain fall and the vile rested against her chest where it pulsated like a heartbeat. Castiel’s skin felt hot; his fingers curled into fists. “Not yet.” Abigail stepped forward and reached for his hand. At her touch, Castiel’s thundering storm of anger and confusion calmed to a drizzling rainstorm. “I want to give it to you. You have fought hard for it and sacrificed so much. But you cannot have it back just yet.”

“Is this where I prove myself, Sariel?” Castiel asked between his teeth. His gaze snapped to the archangel. “Is this punishment?”

The archangel was unfazed by Castiel’s bitter accusations. His face showed no hint of what was happening inside his mind. This was another reason Castiel wanted his grace: he needed to see Sariel’s wings, for they would tell him, in a wide display and puffed feathers, if Castiel had caused a reaction within Sariel. But no. All he saw was Sariel’s indifferent expression. The only response he had to Castiel’s question was a nod to his Nephilim daughter.

Castiel looked to Abigail for answers. She gave him a sad smile and kissed his cheek. “Go with him,” she whispered. Despite Castiel’s head tilt and squinty-eyed look of questioning, she merely sat down and tended to Sam by lifting a bag of ice to his forehead.

“Walk with me, Castiel,” Sariel said. It was not a command, but a suggestion.  
Castiel took one last look at a sweating yet shivering Sam – the last of the heat escaping in a fever – and followed Sariel out into the hallway.

“You know most of my story – what happened to me, Dalya, and Liora,” Sariel began. Castiel nodded silently. A string of curses echoed ominously through the halls. “Barak wanted Abigail so that he may experiment on her: possess her, drug her with demon blood; he wanted to see what use he could make of a half-angel child and mix her powers with that of demons.” Castiel thought to himself, _One mystery solved_. Sheila had told him and Sam that she did not know the reason Barak wanted the Nephilim child. If Sariel knew, perhaps she knew all along. _More lies._

“We hid her as best we could,” Sariel continued, “but for that to happen I would not have been able to see her until I killed Barak. He only came out of hiding, however, when I did.” Sariel paused a moment. Castiel watched him with curiosity: an archangel stood before him with eyes filled with regret and rimmed with water that Castiel found hard to associate with tears. Angels hardly cried. Archangels seemed to never cry. It seemed too weak of an action for such formidable beings.

“So I let him find us,” Sariel resumed. He stopped before a cracked door and gestured for Castiel to go inside. It was the kitchen. Only then did Castiel realize how hungry he was. Sariel told Castiel to eat, and as Castiel reached inside the fridge to pull out bread and jam, Sariel continued his story:

“I was so sure, Castiel – I believed that I had the upper hand because I was prepared: devil’s trap, my sword, spells . . . but he was far more prepared. Somehow he knew of the feigned path to which I would lead him, and he had waited for me. He had the spell’s content in a bowl in one hand, and . . .” Sariel took a deep breath. His voice had cracked; the rest of him looked as though it would crack as well. Castiel’s stomach growled but he could not find it in him to eat. “He had Dalya trapped beside him. She was gagged and bruised and bleeding. Luckily, Abigail was with Dalya’s parents that day, and we told no one else. We almost left her with Liora – but she insisted that it would be better to leave Abigail with their parents instead of her. I will always thank Liora for that decision, for beside Dalya was an even bloodier Liora held by the disgusting hands of Barak’s followers. Some hell-spawn wanting a taste of Earth’s air.”

The faint sound of Dean’s shouts reverberated off the walls. Castiel was getting anxious. The bite he had forced himself to take threatened to resurface.

“Barak did not give me a chance to move. The second I came into their view he uttered the incantation. You know what it was like to be stuck in that limbo: ice so cold it burned and consumed every part of you. Wings frozen into icicles. Mind poisoned by the cold, hallucinating – my brother Lucifer was especially prominent in the personal torture that the cage created for me. 

“Then Barak finished the ritual. I felt the chains yank at me and the bars of my prison fell around me as Lucifer laughed. I should have been trapped forever. I would still be there now.”

Castiel had left his food untouched long enough for Sariel to notice, and he began to walk towards the door. Castiel wiped at his mouth and stood from his stool to follow after. Dean’s shouts were hoarser than they were before. The rattling of chains and frustrated growls had replaced his screamed threats. And still Sariel led Castiel in that direction.

“When I became conscious of the outside world again, Dalya had become worse: she was bleeding heavily; the hilt of the knife in Barak’s hand was slick with her blood. I was frozen; I could not lift a finger to help her. Liora was fighting the demons who held her prisoner, writhing, begging Dalya, ‘Do not do this, sister; he is not worth it. This is all his fault.’ Dalya was sobbing. Apologizing. To both her sister and me.” Sariel’s eyes were distant. He had immersed himself so far into his memory that he stood stiller than a statue. Frozen like he was frozen in the cage. “Barak threw her down and laughed. He laughed the entire time Dalya performed the switching ritual and set me free. I told her I would free her again, but she only told me, ‘If that means that you return to this prison, then leave me.’” 

Castiel was thrust back into his own memory: Dean had completed the switching ritual, and when Castiel had told Dean that he would set him free, Dean said, “If it means putting you back in here, don’t you fucking dare. I’ll leave you in here if that’s the case.” Joking and hiding the pain until the end. Castiel wished Dean had left him in that cage. He would not be screaming and cursing and foaming at the mouth like he was now, with wrists raw from yanking at his chains, and head bruised from smashing it against the walls.

Sariel kept talking, unaware that Castiel was beginning to grieve again. “Then the cage consumed her and I was freed, only to be set aflame by Barak. The last thing I saw was Liora torn apart limb-by-limb.”

Castiel had not noticed when they had started walking again, but the second he realized they were walking was the same second Sariel stopped them. The rattling chains and the animalistic growls were separated by the door between them. Sariel had brought them to Dean’s holding cell.

“I lived by a pure miracle. I cannot explain it any other way, for I should have died. I went into hiding and only emerged when the need to see Abigail was too great. Barak had gone back to Hell to make Liora the first soldier of his new army, vowing to find the Nephilim child that slipped his grasp. I had been searching for Dalya only ten years when I found her. It was too easy with Barak otherwise occupied. I found her near the remains of the cage, crazed and filled with rage, standing amongst a massacre of humans. She, too, had become a Legion demon.”

Castiel looked at the door to Dean’s prison. What if he had not escaped the cage so soon? What if he had been left to incubate? Would he be worse than he was now – howling with rage, thirsty for the death of countless humans, driven insane by years of torture meant for a being more powerful than he? Castiel’s heart dropped, for the howling and the thirst for death had already begun. All that was left was the insanity. The characteristic of a Legion demon.

“Is Dean . . . ?” Castiel asked.

Sariel nodded. “He might have escaped the cage sooner, but the transformation is still occurring. The amount of torture their soul receives in the cage is equivalent to the quick transformation Legion experience. It drives the soul insane. Dalya’s soul, however, was still clinging to the sliver of humanity it had left – and so is Dean’s, though he has more humanity left in him than Dalya did. The soul’s refusal to turn fosters the transformation. No matter what, the human trapped in that cage will turn.”

Castiel turned away from the door. He did want to imagine the suffering of Dean’s soul.

“I attempted the demon cure on Dalya. I heard of the legend: some human attempted it and word traveled that it worked. I believed my archangel blood may be able to purify her quickly, and I began the cure.” Castiel’s heart punched his ribs. He had planned to use his own angelic blood as well to cure Dean, for he had the same thought: angel blood, being so pure, ought to cure faster than the impurity of human blood. Yet Dalya was dead, and Sariel and Abigail still refused to give him his grace. That could only mean one thing.

“It killed her,” Castiel said. It was not a question. He remembered well Sheila’s accusations: _Your angel filth killed her!_

Sariel slammed his fist against the wall opposite Dean’s prison, and the wall cracked. It was like a bomb went off. Sariel hung his head and moaned in pain. “I did not know. I did not know.” He looked up at Castiel with red, watery eyes spilling over with a thousand years’ worth of sorrow. “She begged me to stop. I thought it was because she did not know what she was saying; I thought she was feigning the pain. She fought me before the cure even began –” He covered his face in shame and turned away from Castiel. “I killed her. I did not intend to, but I did” – he looked at Castiel. His voice was steady, though still thick with grief. “And I will not allow you the same fate.”

The rattling had stopped. Dean was far too quiet. _He must be listening,_ Castiel thought.

“That’s why I have to stay human,” Castiel reiterated. Sariel nodded. He wiped at his face and took gulps of air. He was attempting to regain his stoic composure, but it was too late: Castiel had seen too much. “But you said that Sheila was planning on sabotaging Sam and me the entire time – why take my grace and help me along?”

“That I cannot answer. Liora’s mind is complex and structured – but unpredictable. I can, however, say this: her stealing your grace may have been a victory in her eyes, but it gave you a small victory of your own. You would not, upon finding Dean, accidentally poison him the way I did Dalya.” Sariel looked back up the hall they had traveled with a distant look in his eyes, and Castiel imagined that the archangel was thinking of Sheila sitting silently chained. “You will cure him.”

Castiel waited as Sariel purified the room, for it needed to be blessed before the cure could take place. Then, after that was finished, Sariel waited for Castiel to purify himself, and in order to do that, Castiel needed to confess his wrongdoings. All of them. The demon cure would not work if the curer’s blood is not as sanctified as the room in which the cure took place.

Castiel began with his rebellion against Heaven, for that was the beginning of all his true sins. It was not that he considered his rebellion sinful – quite the opposite: it was the right thing to do. Heaven had been corrupted and ruled by jealous and lonely sons who wanted to take their anger at their father out on his creations. Castiel rebelled against Heaven and took on the job of helping the humans fight the apocalypse. But in rebelling, he felt the need to continue the rebellion. He began to think of himself as not only the leader of the rebellion, but the savior that Heaven needed to become pure again. He became drunk with power and thought himself God reborn. He slaughtered angels. He broke Sam and allowed the insanity to eat away at him like a cancer. He lied to Dean – and worse, he betrayed him. He twisted the love he had for humanity and his adoptive family on Earth and made it into this wriggling, black, disgusting self-righteousness for which he did not know if he could redeem himself.

Before Castiel walked into the room and faced Dean, Sariel put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “You have redeemed yourself, Castiel,” he said. “You have, and you will continue to redeem yourself.”

Sariel retreated back down the hall and left Castiel awe-struck. With the new bout of confidence, he forced himself through that door to face his almost-lover in all his rage and brokenness.

Dean was sitting on the ground with crossed legs. His chair was kicked to the side, broken and bent, a representation of what he wanted to do to his captors. He did not show any other hint of a fight in him; he only stared at Castiel with a smirk on his face and black eyes. When Castiel shut the door behind him, Dean came to life: he chuckled and rolled his neck in a predatory, reptilian tilt. “I know why Dalya fought the cure,” he said. The chains jangled as Dean adjusted himself. “It’s because we know what’s pure now. You think what you are – what you have – is pure. Your grace. Your Heavenly gifts. Your _love._ ” 

Castiel grabbed the syringe waiting for him on a table, upon which sat a jug of water, a cup, and a bowl of fruit. A note from Abigail sat beneath the bowl. _These are for the blood loss to come. Do not break. Do not grow weary. Most of all, do not give up. He needs you. You can do this._

“But no,” Dean continued. “We’ve seen the truth. And the truth set us free.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more chapters left! I hope you're ready, because I'm not! I spent a good year and a half working on this thing, and a good, long while uploading it to share it with the world. Once it's finished being uploaded, there would be no reason for me to look back on it. It's closure, but it's bittersweet.
> 
> No matter what, though, I thank you all for taking the time to read it. <3


	28. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When I get out of these chains,” Dean growled through his teeth, and he pulled once again at his restraints, “I’m going to claw out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dean’s throat was raw from yelling. His wrists were chafed and bleeding from wringing them against the handcuffs. His arms were sore from being pinned behind his back. The chair he had sat upon lay crumpled and wrecked in the corner from the abuse it took at the feet of a wrathful demon. When Dean had finished releasing the storm within his core onto the nearest breakable object, and after he realized rubbing his wrists bloody against his restraints would not get his captors attention, he cursed them, insulted them, and threatened them. He wanted to bring them to him so he could do to them what he did to the chair, to himself, with the added addition of creativity and flare that would surely satisfy the gnawing beast within him. Instead, he received an insult: Castiel with a syringe ready to _cure_ him. 

“What you have is not truth, Dean,” Castiel responded calmly. Dean spat at Castiel’s feet as a response. “You’re sick.”

Dean got to his knees. “Says the angel who slaughtered half of his family after convincing himself he was _God reborn_.” Castiel’s back was to him; his shoulders were tense, and his hands, resting on the edge of the table, trembled. That was how Dean knew he was hitting a nerve. “I heard your little confession, Cas.” He got to his feet. _“Oh woe is me, how can I redeem myself after such betrayal.”_ Dean rolled his neck to relieve the tension shooting up and down his spine. Castiel turned slightly to look at Dean out of the corner of his eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

With surprising agility and speed, Castiel spun around and reeled his arm to drive the syringe into Dean’s neck. Dean coiled away, but his reaction was a split second too late and the needle still found its home. It was like shooting acid into his veins. It dissolved his muscles; it melted his lungs. He could hardly breathe; he could hardly move. He felt a howl of agony escape his mouth rather than heard it, for the only sound he could hear was the pounding of his poisoned heart. It felt like ages until the acid diluted in his blood and became nothing. His hearing returned. His chest heaved and fell with every gulp of air. He could feel again, and what he felt was a soreness all over his body aside from a sharp sting at his neck where the needle went in. He could sense a presence hovering over him, skin hot and heart pounding. His eyes went black on instinct.

Dean charged at Castiel. He would have reached him were it not for Castiel’s quick reflexes and, most of all, the chains pinning his hands behind him. Dean pulled against his restraints and tried to break the devil’s trap’s border by breaking the room, all while growling and cursing at the former angel. The walls groaned in response, ready to break, but with the power of the devil’s trap suppressing Dean’s demonic powers, the groaning was all he could accomplish. When Dean’s shoulders threatened to dislocate from the pressure being put upon them, Dean stopped and gasped for air. Castiel backed up against the table with heaving lungs. Where Dean stared at him with malice in his eyes, Castiel stared back with those tired, sad, worry-filled baby blues. Dean couldn’t stand it.

“When I get out of these chains,” Dean growled through his teeth, and he pulled once again at his restraints, “I’m going to claw out those pretty eyes of yours.”

“When you get out of those chains,” Castiel retorted, “you won’t want to.”

Dean rolled his eyes and turned his back on Castiel to stare at the wall. From what he remembered about the demon cure, it took eight injections over eight hours to make the demon became a human again. _This is going to be a long eight hours_ , he huffed. He circled the devil’s trap. Thinking. Planning. What to do in those eight hours? Castiel watched Dean with familiar squinty-eyed concentration etched into his tense jaw. He, too, was thinking. Dean felt his eyes go back to green and he paced back and forth within his cage like a starved and vengeful lion locked away to be gawked at and toyed with. 

He went through the same escape plans he had gone through while he was waiting for his captors to arrive: break his thumb to escape the handcuffs, and then pound at the concrete until it cracked; or, if the pounding did not work, he would pull at the chains until they unhinged from their place on the wall a few feet away and use the end to scratch away the devil’s trap’s border. Once he was free, he would keep the chain and use the end of it like a weapon to choke them all. Only, however, if they got in his way: Dean knew when he was beat, and he was beat when an archangel was involved. He overheard enough to know that the tall man with the deep tan skin was of the _dick-est of dicks with wings_ , as he liked to call the archangel race. Dicks they were, but they were strong, far stronger than he was, and once freed he would hurry to the nearest exit. He had no hope of teleporting out with the warding on the Bunker, but if he could take out the spells and sygils of the nearest exits, he would be free to go where he pleased.

He did not, however, factor in the demon cure. He looked away from the wall again to look at Castiel and regretted it: the former angel’s face was etched with concern, and Dean flashed his demon eyes before turning his back on the frustratingly silent Castiel. He ought to have known his brother and his angel would not let him be free. He was so close. He had tasted a hint of life without the chains of humanity, of familial obligation, and of lost love. Now he was chained and forced to be injected with purified human blood that would kill every bit of demon within him, leaving nothing but the battered and withered carcass of what his soul was. Was it even possible to revive what had been consumed by his own demon? Could he survive with a corpse of a soul? _Is there even anything left to cure?_ Dean asked himself. He did not know if he wanted there to be or not. But one thing was for sure: _I can’t let him finish this cure._

It was a second too late that Dean had realized Castiel snuck up behind him. He heard the whistle of the needle as it sailed down and dove into his neck. He could feel his blood sizzling beneath his skin as the acid crept its way through his body and through his heart. He felt the scream again but could not hear it. In the next second, he felt a burning at his cheeks and a husky voice calling to him. He opened his eyes little by little until they were able to focus on a pair of sky blue eyes, and he realized Castiel was the one coaxing him to consciousness. For a moment, Dean and Castiel stared at one another, neither one of them making a move to separate. Castiel searched anxiously in Dean’s eyes for any hint of the cure. Dean let him. He allowed himself to feel the burn at his cheeks where Castiel’s hands touched him; he allowed himself to feel the ache in his heart and the writhing of his insides. But it was not long before the _feeling_ itself became too much, and he headbutt Castiel to get him off. Before Dean could do more damage, Castiel backed away with his hand at his forehead. Dean yanked at the chains and growled as the puncture mark at his neck throbbed.

“Dean – ”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean snarled. “You just wait –”

“Dean, I need to know.”

Dean yanked at the chains so hard he felt the bones at his shoulders being pulled out of their sockets from being forced in a way they could not go. “Let me out and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

Castiel rubbed at the goose egg incubating at his forehead and guzzled water. Dean’s body began to ache and the puncture wounds at his neck pulsated like they were their own heartbeat. He rolled his neck and flinched, and he hissed in pain – such a movement was too much for his weary body. Two injections in and he was already beginning to grow weak. He did not want to think of the next six injections – if he survived that long.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Castiel asked. Dean ceased his panting. “In Purgatory. Sam was refusing to help you get out. You had your chance. You could have killed me; I was at your mercy. But you didn’t.” For a moment, the two men stared at one another; one breathed heavily, and the other held his breath. “Why didn’t you kill me?” Castiel demanded.

Dean let out his held breath in a scoff. “That’s what you want to know?” he retorted. “You were sitting on _that_ this past hour?” Dean let out a chuckle of mockery. “Jesus Christ.”

“I have more questions,” Castiel retorted. “Questions you will answer.” His eyes combed the room’s concrete walls, the clutter of books behind the false wall of shelves hiding the prison within. “It isn’t like you have much else to do in here.”

“Considering the fact my hands are tied, I can’t actually flip you off, but imagine that I am.” A hint of a grin twitched at the corner of Castiel’s mouth, but that was it. He crossed his arms and stood his ground. Dean rolled his eyes. “I didn’t kill you because I . . . I needed you.” Castiel’s eyes grew wide. Dean rolled his neck. His shoulders. A gong went off in his brain; a warning that the all familiar pain of humanity was coming. “I needed a way out, and you two were my best shot. Killing you would only trap me.”

Castiel squinted and gave Dean the accusatory side-eye. Dean was hoping the other man would believe the lie, but he had not been that lucky as of late. He rattled the chains as a reminder. 

It was not any need to be freed from Purgatory that stayed Dean’s homicidal rage; it was Dean himself. It was the speck of humanity left within him that stopped him. It shocked his brain and forced him to act on instinct, and that instinct was not to kill Cas. Dean still beat him down, still bruised him, and tossed him around like a ragdoll in a dog’s mouth, but that was child’s play. That was not malice. He could have broken Castiel’s neck with a flick of his wrist. He could have pinned him to the wall and ripped him apart limb by limb without actually lifting a finger. And yet, when their eyes met, he fought with his heart rather than his demonic soul. Even when he had Castiel pinned to the wall with his elbow at the other man’s neck, he could have squeezed the air from his lungs, but he was weak. Too weak to rid himself of the man who put him in the cage.

 _But he didn’t put you in that cage_ , said a voice. Dean twitched at the tension in his shoulders and turned away from Castiel. The voice was his own, but it was spewing nonsense. _He didn’t; you did._ More nonsense. Dean was getting a headache. A migraine. An avalanche in his brain, burying him in icy snow. _You put yourself in there because you had to free him. You did it because you –_

 _No_ , he ordered. _Don’t you say it. Don’t you think it. I don’t need this. Not now._ He peeked at Castiel, who only watched with his signature head tilt and squinty-eyed stare.

After a moment of nauseating silence, Dean had regained his composure, and Castiel finally said, “I don’t believe you.” Dean huffed and turned his back. “Don’t you think, maybe, there is a part of you that is still _you?_ ” Dean felt a stabbing pain shoot up his spine and to his neck, and he shuddered. “Do you think perhaps that is why you cannot bring yourself to kill me?”

“Keep talking,” Dean snarled. “Give me a reason.”

“You have to know this isn’t you. This never was you.” 

Dean could feel his own dead heart pounding beneath his ribcage; he could hear it pulsating in his ears, like a knocking at the door. The gong clanged again and reverberated off the walls of his skull. Warning him of the impending torture fueled by the demon cure. Dean turned around to face Castiel again and saw the man’s eyes filled with a desperate need. A longing. He felt the beginnings of that cursed pain, the knife that loved to twist his insides and remind him of the speck of humanity still within him. The part that refused to transform. The part that wanted to fight. 

His demon wanted to fight, too.

Dean said, “That’s the point.” He faced Castiel. He yanked at his chains. “That’s the _point._ Who I was is dead. He needed to be killed. He was pitiful and spineless, and he knew it – _I know it_. What I am now is so close to being free of that _shit pile_ of a human I was before.”

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

Dean was ready to respond with blinding vexation; he was readying himself to break his thumb and free his hand from the restraints. Instead, he was thrust back into a distant memory from a time when he barely knew Castiel. It was a time when the angel was still a pawn of heaven and had only a seed of rebellion planted within him. Dean was still fresh from Hell, so fresh his hands still felt slick with the blood of those he tortured. He could not believe angels existed. All Dean could see was the “holy tax accountant” with scruffy hair, large, sad eyes, and bullet holes littering his trenchcoat. Then the man had the audacity to say to Dean the very thing he had been on his mind since he crawled out of that grave: “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.” And now, years later, with Dean being the otherworldly creature and Castiel being the simple human, he says it again, and it had the same impact on Dean as it did then; it was like the sound of breaks coming to a screeching halt.

But he could not let Castiel see it. What would he think? Would he think Dean could be cured?

“You know what I think? Hm?” he whispered. He paced the claustrophobic circle again with tense arms, a squared jaw, and a heart filled with ire and fire. 

_What_ do _I think?_ he asked himself. _Can I be cured?_

“I think you’re foolin’ yourself,” he continued. 

_Who are you trying to convince, Dean – him or you?_

“I think you’re too self-righteous,” Dean growled, “and too hell-bent on proving that you aren’t the homicidal monster that could slay half of heaven’s hosts, so you’re tricking yourself into thinking that if you _fix_ me” – Dean’s voice rose to a shout – “you can make up for the disgusting lies you tell yourself!”

Castiel lunged for Dean again with syringe filled with blood. Dean had not even seen Castiel refill it, but this time he was ready for the attempted attack, and he kicked the former angel’s legs from beneath him. He fell in a heap and the syringe clattered against the cement. Dean tried to kick Castiel in the face, but Castiel was fast, and he grabbed Dean’s leg and pulled. He fell beside the former angel and head-butt him again. While Castiel groaned and attended to his newly bloodied nose, Dean slipped his arms around his legs and his hands moved from the back to the front, so they were free to grab and choke and claw. He got to his knees and reached down to wrap his hands around Castiel’s throat, but once again, the son of a bitch was ready with the needle and it plummeted into his neck.

One injection was agonizing. A second was enough to make Dean fall unconscious. The third, given too early, was a new experience entirely: the acid still snaked through his limbs and poisoned his heart, but this time he could feel it killing the demon within. It writhed and shrieked in pain as its very entirety melted. Dean’s insides were liquefied. His dead heart gave a lurch of shock, and Dean clutched Castiel’s trenchoat in his fist. Though the pain threatened to blind him with darkness, and though his humanity fought back with the damned knife that loved to carve him to ribbons and remind him it was still there, he pulled Castiel up to look him straight in his black eyes. Castiel panted; his breath hit Dean’s lips in warm puffs. His eyes were wide and dilated with fear of the unknown. Dean ignored his own suffering to make it clear to Castiel:

“You say I’m sick?!” he bellowed. Castiel tried to pull himself away, but Dean had an iron grip. “You say I need to be cured?!” He closed his hand around Castiel’s throat and squeezed. The acid began to boil his blood. He closed his eyes tight, turned away, grit his teeth, and let out a muffled cry of agony. “I don’t need it!” _I don’t need the cure, I don’t need my humanity, I don’t need Castiel._

Castiel stopped trying to pull away. He choked, trying to say Dean’s name. Dean threw Castiel to the ground and banged his head against the concrete.

 _“I like the disease!”_ thundered Dean seconds before he was consumed by black.

The next thing Dean knew he was lying against the cold cement with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He tried opening his eyes, but the light above him was blinding, and everything else was too blurry to see. He squeezed them shut and tried to listen, but it was useless: aside from the high-pitched ringing in his ears, he heard Castiel’s husky voice spilling words that were nothing but noise he could not understand. He tried to move. He stopped immediately, for his body felt as though it fell ten stories, and he ached all over. He coughed again. His throat felt like it was being rubbed raw with sandpaper. He tasted more blood.

 _It’s working_ , he thought dejectedly, and he rolled over onto his hands and knees. _The cure is working._ He coughed again. Blood littered the floor. The injection, given too early, sped up the process, killing the demon within him faster. Dean, feeling every aching and throbbing muscle within him, worried he would not survive the transformation.

It was then he noticed that the tip of his finger had breached the devil’s trap’s border. He stared at it with wide eyes and dared to hope. He inched it further, waiting to feel the restrain, but he felt nothing. A lightbulb blinked to life in his mind: the demon cure was returning him to human, and devil’s traps have no effect on humans. He may yet survive.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Castiel coughed. His voice was hoarser after being choked. “I could have killed you.” Dean waited for the next bout of coughing to hide the pop of his bone as he freed his other hand. “I’m sorry –”

Despite the protest of his throbbing muscles, Dean lunged and pinned Castiel down with his knees at the other man’s elbows. The former angel did not stand a chance: he was caught by surprise, short of breath, and overpowered. Dean punched Castiel once, twice, three times across the face. He blocked any retaliation from Castiel before punching him again. The former angel’s face began to look like a swollen and bloody steak. He stopped trying to push Dean off. Dean could see the fight leaving him. 

A falling sensation made Dean’s stomach feel like it dropped to the floor from five stories up. His breath was sucked straight out his lungs. Castiel had not being giving up at all, no; the bastard had been saving his strength to land one agonizing punch to the gut, leaving Dean wheezing for air and backing away to catch his breath. Castiel took that moment to try and crawl away; blood dripped form his nose and down his chin to the floor. He groaned in pain with every step. Dean was half inside the devil’s trap, half out, leaning against the nearest wall and gasping like a fish out of water. _For a nerdy little dude_ , Dean thought amidst everything, _he can hit._

“Dean,” Castiel choked, “I’m not going to fight you.” He whimpered as he attempted to stand. “I’m not” – he groaned – “going to fight you.”

Dean used the wall as support and pulled himself up. “Yes,” he panted, “yes you are.”

Castiel wobbled where he stood, and Dean took a lungful of air before he lunged again. Castiel, though bleeding and bruised, did not retaliate any more. It seemed he only punched Dean before to get a chance to say that he was not going to fight. Dean howled in rage as he punched and kneed Castiel wherever he could reach him, and Castiel took the abuse without a word of complaint. He used other words instead, words that made Dean all the more furious:

“I’m not” – block, block again – “going to fight you.” Dean’s arms grew weary, but he kept swinging. “I’m going to help you fight this.” Dean landed a punch, and Castiel groaned. Still, he did not stop. “Because this is not who you are. This is not who _we_ are.” 

Dean grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s coat and threw him to the ground, ordering Castiel to shut up, shut up, _“Shut up!”_ He swung his leg, and he swung it again, and again, and again until he could feel the crack of bone beneath Castiel’s skin.

“And I will help you fight,” Castiel repeated, and blood dribbled down the corner of his lips. “Because I promised to grip you tight” – another kick, another spurt of blood – “and raise you from perdition.” 

Dean was forcedly thrust into the memory of their first meeting once again. Those very same words were enough to floor Dean then. There were enough to floor Dean now. He felt a knife dive into his abdomen and twist; his bones crackled and his spine rolled beneath his skin. He was once again greeted with the familiar pain of humanity. His knees stung upon impact with the cement floor as he fell.

“I’m not letting you give up,” Castiel declared. A jackhammer drove mercilessly into Dean’s skull and he clutched his head and screamed. “You made a vow when you set me free from that cage. _Ohl mahl-pi-reh-gah nee-ees ah-me-rawn._ My life for yours. That goes both ways.”

Dean’s insides liquefied and boiled. His skull cracked open. His blood turned to fire and burned him alive.

“Make it stop,” he begged. He was nearly blinded by the pain. The black was beginning to surround him. “Make it stop.”

“I will,” Castiel reassured. He clutched Dean’s shirt in his hands and held him up before he sunk to the floor. The sharp sting of the needle pierced Dean’s skin and acid replaced the fire in his veins. He burned. He dissolved. He wanted to scream but was too weak to build one. “You have to stay with me. Do you hear me, Dean? Because you are my family.”

“Don’t say it,” Dean whispered. The black was reaching out its hand, tempting Dean to follow it. Tears leaked from his eyes, but they were too hot, too thick – he was crying blood. “Please.”

“Because I need you, Dean.” He shook Dean to keep him awake. “I need you. Damn it all, I need you, and I need _you_ , not this demon that you have been turned into. I need you.”

The moment he first felt that shred of humanity refusing to conform to the demon within, Dean thought he had to kill it. When it screamed for attention, the demon within screamed louder, calling for blood. So Dean gave it. But it did not suffice. His humanity fought back. It clawed at his ribs like they were the bars of its cage, and it screamed for Sam and Castiel. Like a prisoner of war calling for backup. Were they not the reason he was so trapped before? Why he was still trapped? In order to be free, Dean thought, they had to die; in order to be rid of the poisonous humanity within him, he had to kill those who fought to restore it. But the truth was he could not kill them. Even when he all he had to do was watch Sam die, he could not do it. Worst of all was Castiel: he could not truly kill Castiel, with his broken and bloody body at his feet, at the mercy of the looming monster above him. He could not kill him because he knew the consequence. Dean was a broken human, but Castiel was the one who could hold him together. In the fragment of humanity left within him Dean knew that if he killed Castiel he would die, too.

It was simple: “I need you, too,” Dean breathed.

He melted. He became a mist. The air was put back into his lungs. His heart gave a weak heave as it came back to life. His broken pieces came back together again. He had to turn into a monster to realize that monsters could be healed. He had to be killed in order to see that who he was wasn’t truly dead. He collapsed into Castiel’s arms not as a demon, but as a human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter:  
> [Ashes in the Snow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8Juilrg6oQ) \- MONO
> 
> I began the prequel to this, The Angel Feather, weeks before demon!dean was revealed, and I remember thinking how awesome it felt that both the writers of the show and I were heading towards a demon!dean arch. Then when season 10 came out, and I started writing the Demon Cure, I remember feeling cheated that the demon!dean arch only lasted three episodes. "Where is the year of the deanmon I was promised?" I remember thinking. That motivated my months long process of writing thirty-chapter long fic The Demon Cure (yup, only a few more chapters!), and all the things Dean did, and could have done, as a demon on the show. Of course, my story arch for demon!dean is radically different from the show's, I still feel they missed an amazing opportunity to be found in a Winchester demon. I'm not trying to sound pretentious and say I'm doing it better -- of course not -- but I am motivated and inspired by my problematic fav show that sometimes doesn't know what it's doing. I am grateful to have that inspiration, an outlet through which to express my creativity, and people with whom to share my work.
> 
> I doubt a lot of people are actually reading this, but if you are, you are appreciated.


	29. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheila inhaled loudly through her nose. “Is that why you’ve finally come down to visit me, Boy King?” she moaned. “Am I the one on whom you will enact your revenge?”

There were plenty of other rooms in which to imprison Sheila; however, Sam felt none insulted her as much as the one he found her in: a cement room fifteen feet below his bed. It was a small victory having her trapped in that room once more, but a victory nonetheless. She was as silent as she was when he found her – so silent, in fact, that one could almost forget she was there. Were Sam feeling kind, he could simply leave her there for another fifty, sixty, a hundred years. Leave a decaying note like the Man of Letters before him with a warning that would never reach the surface. But no. Sam was not that kind. After all the chaos this demon had wrought, Sam wanted to give her the punishment she deserved.

But he wanted to hear her confess first.  
Johanna walked into Sam’s room first and combed the room with hungry, tired eyes. “So this is your bedroom?” she asked hoarsely. All that screaming from being tortured by the demon below them left her throat raw. She cleared her throat. “How did you find her? Heard the monster under your bed?”

Sam chuckled before tugging at his bed. It screeched against the concrete floor like teeth being ground together. He and Johanna flinched. “Not exactly,” he groaned. His ribs protested and shot him with a stinging pain that traveled up and down his torso. He ignored it and gave his bed a final tug to reveal a door like a manhole cover one finds on the streets carved with the symbol of the Men of Letters.

Johanna came over to investigate more closely. “Then how?”

Sam looked down at the door. Sweat trickled down his back and his skin crawled. His heart pounded against its cavity like an animal trying to escape a hunter’s trap. He thought he wanted to get this over with. He thought his need for closure and vengeance was great, but the thought of confronting Sheila stirred within him a sense foreboding he could not shake. Despite everything . . . he was nervous.

So he stalled: “Dean had gone out for some errands,” he sighed, “and I decided to – well, in his vernacular, I decided to be Indiana Jones.” Johanna laughed, causing Sam to smile. “I wanted to search every bit of this bunker. Find its secrets.” Sam slowly walked past the door to Sheila’s prison and meandered over to his desk, where his most recent books scored from the Men of Letters library sat in an organized line. “These Men of Letters have hundreds of rare documents and artifacts – they were bound to have some hidden rooms in this place.” He leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. Where a moment ago he was sweating, now he felt cold, as all the heat was suddenly sucked out from his body. 

The memories of that day flooded his mind and tossed him around like a boat on an angry sea. “After searching around, though, I didn’t find much,” he muttered. He ran his hands through his hair and chuckled humorlessly. “Until I was desperate enough to open the _freezer_. We never opened it, so I thought, why not? Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A demon – just smoke, but she had escaped from the damn freezer, of all things. In it, I found a hidden door. A hidden tunnel. At the end of it a hidden room.” Johanna shifted from one leg to the other and held her arms around herself. “There were bodies. Skeletons. And a ladder that I followed up to . . .” Johanna looked at the door by her feet. “Here.”

He could still hear the _crackle, crack, sssslide, thump, thump_ of Sheila’s rotting corpse of a host. “Sheila possessed one of the bodies down there,” he recalled aloud. It was then he realized he never told anyone the full story of how he found her. How she possessed one of the bodies she mutilated, replaced its dead eyes with her pearl-white orbs, how she spoke with a seductive voice that was dusty with age. “We, uh,” Sam stuttered, thinking of how that seductive voice knew exactly what words to say to string him like a puppet. “We had a chat, where I . . .” Sam was an easy target where his brother concerned, and he played right into her. She knew where to hit him; she knew how he worked. “Where I made the deal,” he murmured, and he ran a hand through his hair again.

“You had the right intentions, Sam,” whispered Johanna. Sam met her gaze before his eyes traveled down the rest of her: though Sariel had healed her major injuries – the deep stab wound at her thigh, her swollen cheek, the gash across her chest – she still had scars. On her face. Peeking out beneath her shirt collar. Her arms. There was even a rip in her jeans where Sheila drove the knife through. _And she’s not even the worst casualty_ , Sam thought. Dean lay unconscious in his bed just a few rooms over. Abigail was nearly killed. A still human Castiel was being healed from the many injuries he sustained from curing Dean. Sam still felt the burn from the grace, and his shoulders still ached with every breath he took. He was told he would have scars where the wings burst through his shoulder blades. But what are more scars anyway?

“Good intentions,” Sam scoffed. “Story of my life.”

“There’s more to it than that.” Sam raised an eyebrow. Johanna put her hands on her hips. There was a spark of determination in her large brown eyes Sam had not yet seen, and he was entranced. _Even if she is about to scold me_ , he thought, and he tried not to laugh. “That isn’t the only chapter in your story. From what you’ve told me, it’s more than that: it’s about saving people.” Sam chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. Johanna stomped over to him and poked his chest. “You save people, Sam. That is who you are. You helped save me, even after the demons were gone.” Sam furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. His heart swelled. “You saved Castiel. You saved your brother. And so many others.”

Sam tried to look away, for he was unable to handle hearing that he was not blamed. Wasn’t this all his fault? Was it not always his fault? He felt a soft hand at his chin force him to look at the fire burning within Johanna’s eyes. He wanted to feel the burn. “So when you go down there,” she said, more softly than before, “no matter what she says, and no matter what happens, remember that you are strong.” Sam held his breath. “That your need to save others is not your weakness; it is your strength.”

_I could kiss you_ , he thought. His lips were parted to either speak or to embrace her lips – it was hard to tell which. Perhaps he was desperate to be proven wrong; perhaps he wanted to hear that he was not to blame for everything that happened with Sheila. He knew for a fact, however, that it was exactly what he needed to hear. Even if it was from this young woman whom he only knew because she was possessed by the demons from which he could not protect her. She should have run away from him. From all the demons and angels and blood. Yet there she stood, even after being tortured. There she stood telling Sam that he was strong. That he did not destroy, but saved. He may still be struggling with the weight of guilt on his shoulders, but at least she was willing to bear some of it and haul it away. Maybe one day he would believe her when she said that he was better than he perceived himself to be. He pulled her into a bone-crushing hug as the only gratitude he could muster.

With a newfound strength, he led the way down the ladder and into Sheila’s prison.

Mold. Dust. Musky corpses, rotted bits of flesh, and mummified innards left from the massacre performed by Sheila herself when she was imprisoned by the Men of Letters unfortunate enough to tangle with her. Sam breathed through his mouth to hinder the onslaught of horrid smells attacking his senses. It was so silent that even their breathing sounded like sirens. Aside from the light that leaked from Sam’s bedroom and the lantern at his hands, it was blacker than the night. Whatever was at the bottom was a mystery until Sam’s feet scuffed against the floor and a chain rattled in response. When he lifted his lantern, a figure revealed herself: her head hung low and her legs were twisted in ways they ought not to be. When she looked up, Johanna let out a gasp that echoed through the room.

“Don’t be afraid, child,” Sheila crooned, and Johanna jumped out of her skin. Sam flinched away. Sheila twitched and rolled her neck before meeting his eyes with her fathomless orbs of pearl white. Her forehead was bloody ad bruised, and her nose dripped crimson. One of her shoulders jutted out from behind at an awkward angle, and her torso bled around her ribs. “The only one I can hurt right now is myself,” she explained, and when she smiled, she revealed her teeth stained a soft red from the blood at her torn lips. She must have bitten herself. “But even then, it doesn’t hurt.” The chains rattled. “It soothes me.”

“I thought you were above the barbaric Legion demon behavior,” Sam mocked as he pulled out his lighter. “You said as much when we met.”

“Even I have my limits, Sam,” she breathed. Her chains rattled as she twitched again. She rolled her neck slowly, and her hair clung to her skin with sweat and blood. “Seeing the one who murdered your sibling again after nearly a hundred years might unhinge you as well.”

Sam thought back to those who tried (and, on occasion, succeeded) killing Dean, and he found Sheila on that list. He scoffed and lit the nearest torch before going on to the next. Was he unhinged? He lit the third and last torch without thinking twice about his answer. “Less unhinged. More vengeful.”

A wet crack like a gunshot filled the room and Sam ducked on instinct. He realized, after looking at Sheila, with her head swiveled around like an owl’s that she broke her own neck. She giggled softly and wheeled her head back to its normal position. A hint of a bone protruded from her neck. Johanna clutched her heart with one hand and reached for Sam with the other. He did not think twice about it: their fingers intertwined, and he gave her hand a squeeze before he let go and faced Sheila.

Sheila inhaled loudly through her nose. “Is that why you’ve finally come down to visit me, Boy King?” she moaned. “Am I the one on whom you will enact your revenge?”

Sam retrieved the demon killing knife from his pocket. The next second he cowered against the wall with Johanna at his back. Sheila, gnarling, growling, and gnashing her teeth, pulled against her chains; she tried to push past the barrier set up by the devil’s trap with white eyes and a mouth dripping with blood. It was over as quickly as it began: she stopped fighting the chains and panted, staring at Sam with blue, human eyes. She began to slowly circle the border of her prison. The chain dragged against the floor. Though Sam had a million questions in his eyes, she said nothing.

So Sam did. “Before I kill you” – Sheila giggled and whimpered as she twitched – “and I will kill you” – she rattled her chains – “you will answer my question.”

“Anything for you, my King,” Sheila whispered before slowly rotating her neck.

“Why.” She stopped her pacing. “Tell me why. And I want the truth, not the whole, ‘I know what it’s like to lose a sibling,’ bullshit, either.”

“Oh, but that’s exactly why, Sam,” Sheila replied instantly. She went as far forward as the devil’s trap allowed and stared at Sam with wild, wide eyes and a toothy grin. Sam stood his ground. “I watched my sister as she was stabbed, as she traded places with that pile of shit with wings so that he may live. I was tortured, poisoned, brutally murdered to become who I am, the controller of chaos, seer of the future . . .” She made a choking sound before crouching down to gag. Sam curled his lip in disgust. “Only . . .,” she whispered, “only to be blindsided” – she looked up at Sam and grit her teeth – “by my own sister’s transformation.”

She suddenly smiled wide and licked her lips. A chill ran up and down Sam’s spine. “So when I met you and saw your future, one that was similar to mine, I did not want to help.” She giggled and sighed. “I wanted to ruin you.”

Sam’s heart dropped. He rummaged through the memory of their meeting to find a detail he overlooked or a hint of her true intentions. He found nothing. All he found was himself being willingly played by the demon that stood before him. 

“Don’t look so surprised, Boy King,” Shelia hummed. “I was thrown into the pits of Hell and mutilated for no other reason than I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I was not allowed to have an ending with my sister, let alone a happy one. Sariel killed her before I had a chance to keep her alive and teach her my ways.” 

She gagged again and snapped her neck. Another wet crack filled the room. 

“I was not about to allow some discarded vessel of the Devil,” she snarled, “walk away with his brother alive. I saw it in your future: Dean was still going to switch places – that was always going to happen – but every outcome ended with him cured.” She began to hyperventilate. Her chains clanged against the cement floor. “My sister was never going to be cured!” she shrieked, and she tried to fight the devil’s trap to get to Sam. Sam stood frozen, and Johanna tried to pull him back. “She was always going to die! _It is not fair!_ ”

The whole room shook. The walls cracked. The floors rumbled, but thankfully they did not crack. Still, Sam pushed Johanna closer to the ladder as a precaution. The fires blew out of the torches and left the room in the shadow of the unnatural light of the lantern. Sam watched as Sheila writhed and screamed and gagged and screamed again.

“So you screwed me,” Sam shouted over Sheila’s rage, “just because you were jealous?”

“Jealous?!” Sheila barked. The flames came alive again. Her bloody face was cast in the light of the ember’s glow. The flames danced within her pearl white eyes. “What a petty word. I am above that.” She spat. Blood landed by Sam’s feet, but he did not shy away. He stared at her white eyes and did not look away. “I did not do it out of jealousy, you worm – I did it because I could. And I did more.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Sam asked. “Why drag it on, spiral out of control, make it –” _Chaotic_ , Sam finished. He huffed and clenched his hands into fists. Did he not realize to whom he asked that question?

Sheila spoke his thought aloud. “Choatic, Sam?” Sam pursed his lips. He felt his fists trembling. His face was hot. “I wanted to have fun with it. I wanted you to chase me around as a cat chases a mouse so I could laugh as you ran in circles.” Sam thought about the whole year he spent trying to find her. How she would suddenly change course and end up miles away from where he thought she would be. He should have known then she was toying with him. He saw red. 

“I controlled the chaos,” she continued with a smile, “as I always have. I let you find me after I helped that child because I wanted to ruin the angel as well. I wanted him to suffer. So I took his grace.”

“But you were only helping us along at that point,” Sam argued. “Sariel” – Sheila gnarled her teeth and twitched like she was being electrocuted – “told me that Castiel was supposed to be a human in order to cure Dean.” 

“I expected Dean to kill the graceless angel when you two found him in Purgatory,” Sheila retorted with a pull of her chains. “I saw the outcomes: half ended with the three of you leaving, another half with both of you dying at the hands of your brother. With the way things were going, it looked as if you two might live, so I thought if I were there myself I would ensure the angel’s death, at least.” Sheila turned away and gagged. She rolled her shoulders, and her dislocated shoulder popped and crackled like a log in a fire. Johanna jumped with every pop. “But I knew Dean and I would fight. I lost control the more we fought. When you attempted to exorcise me. When you threw holy water on me. It took everything in me not to kill you because I wanted Dean to.” Sheila turned slightly. Her hair hung in her face. “I had to rethink my approach.”

“Which is why you went along with a new deal,” Sam added. “You help me find Dean, I help you with your deals.” She giggled and turned her face again. “I thought I was starting the game.”

“No. You were joining mine.” Sheila paced back and forth and watched Sam like a caged, ravenous tiger. “I went to Dean, too. Gave him the same deal, essentially: I help him find you, he joins my ranks. But he was going to kill you. Then he was going to convert your soul to Legion for me – he was going to convert all your souls.”

“You fucking bitch!” Sam shouted. Sheila giggled and twitched. Stupid, stupid, stupid, Sam cursed himself, and he clenched the knife tighter. How utterly wrong he had been. How utterly blinded. He thought he had been so clever, but he was fooling himself. She had always been two steps ahead; she knew the steps he would take and made a labyrinth for him to traverse. He saw red. His muscles clenched. His ears rang with the sound of her crazed laughter and he hyperventilated. 

He did not think. He grabbed Sheila’s neck and punched. The flames reflected off the knife in his hands, but he did not use it. He was driven by instinct to use his hands. He punched again. Again. He threw her down. Sheila did not scream; she did not fight him. She simply continued to laugh.

“Yes, I knew that would anger you,” Sheila chortled and coughed. Sam kicked her in the ribs. He kicked her again. “I wanted you to hurt, Sam,” she gasped. She spit, and blood splashed against his shoes. “I wanted to rub salt in your wounds. Dean could have turned you into one of my pawns.” Sam kicked her across the face. Her nose cracked. She licked at the blood flowing from her nose and added, “Imagine being transformed at the hands of your own demonized brother. Imagine watching as he killed Castiel and Johanna.”

Sam picked Sheila up by the hair and she moaned wantonly. He reeled his arm to punch her again until a voice stayed his hand. “Just end it, Sam.” Sam whipped his head around to face Johanna. He let go of Sheila and looked down at his hands. That’s when he remembered the knife. He uncurled his aching fingers and looked back up at Johanna. 

“You’ve been through enough,” she whispered, and she stepped closer. Her hands found his and turned them around to look at the bloody and broken flesh. The touch of her fingers against the scarring was lighter than a feather. “Don’t add more scars than are needed.”

“My scars will be healed when she’s dead,” he said through gritted teeth. He flinched at his own fucked up mindset. How could he be so violent around her? “I’ll end it, but I don’t . . .” He sighed, and he met her large brown eyes. “I don’t want you seeing me kill her.”

“I do,” Johanna replied immediately. She let out a nervous laugh, but he could see the fiery want in her eyes. He could feel their heat. “That may sound fucked up, but –”

“You’re talking to me, Johanna,” he interrupted, and she, thankfully, laughed. Sam found it in himself to smile.

“After what she did to me . . . what she did to you . . . I want to see her dead.”

Sam lifted his hand and ran his fingers over her scarred cheek before cupping it in his hand. “Don’t add more scars than are needed,” he murmured.

The fire in her eyes became an ember’s glow. She looked over at Sheila and let out a long breath. Before she climbed up the ladder, she told him she’d be waiting and planted a soft kiss against his cheek.

“Keep giving her that look, Boy King,” Sheila teased, “and I’ll be . . .” Sam squared his shoulders and turned around to face her. Despite being bruised, broken, and bloody, she was still decorated with a smile pinkish from blood. “Well, I won’t be jealous, per se – that’s pitiful. No. I’ll just kill her.” She laughed like a mad hatter. “Or you will. For the love of all things good, do not bed her. We know most of the women you bed do not live long after.” Sam twisted the knife in his hand. “Trust me, Sam, I can see your future.”

“And what about yours?” he asked through gritted teeth. She stopped smiling and gagged. “Do you know what I see? I see blood. I see death.” She stopped gagging and laughed. “I see the light leaving your eyes.”  
Sam grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back to reveal her pale, slender neck. She did not breathe. She did not struggle. She only wore her familiar seductive smirk.

“You have a gift,” she whispered.

Her skeleton illuminated with the crackling electric glow from the knife’s demon-killing powers. But she was no ordinary demon. The knife’s hilt stuck out from her chest, where her dead heart lay, but she did not die. She shrieked and head-butt Sam, but he reacted with another stab to her ribs. She tried to bite him. He stabbed her in the throat and she gargled. Her skeleton was outlined in the yellow glow of the knife’s powers. She stared at him with pearl white eyes before they leaked blood; her mouth, too, leaked blood. He could not see the light leaving her eyes, but he could see her strength leaving her. The thump of her body hitting the floor was one of the sweetest sounds Sam heard. When he pulled the knife out from its final inflicted wound, she moved not. 

Sheila was dead.

Sam climbed up the ladder with numb and shaky limbs. He used the last of his strength to crawl out of the hole, and the second he closed it behind him he was immediately tackled with a hug. He began to feel again: Johanna’s curly hair tickled his chin; her heart beat wildly against his chest; her body heat warm against his shocked heart. He held her tight and allowed himself to breathe, for it was all nearly over. He could have stayed where he was, holding Johanna and feeling her warmth, for hours – and so he did. He moved his bed back to its original spot over Sheila’s tomb and the two of them crawled into bed and curled into one another. Sheila was forgotten for a few moments. The events of the past year were temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. 

Warm and relieved, and absolutely exhausted, Sam fell into a dreamless sleep with Johanna in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! 
> 
>  
> 
> (Me: *softly cries*)


	30. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean,” Castiel softly called. Dean wanted to bury his face into his pillow. “I can stay, if that is what you want.” Dean wanted to bury his face into his pillow so deep that he would suffocate. “You are allowed to ask me to stay.”

He must have been thrown from a building. An impossibly tall building with jagged embellishments to the architecture, all of which he hit on the way down. His spine must have been the first thing to break, for its angular pieces were trying to break through his skin. Next was the rest of his skeleton, unevenly ground to powder with few pieces like glass stabbing whatever they could reach. His organs had all ruptured on impact with the ground and became nothing but bloody, popped balloons. His limbs were useless rubber _things_ that felt detached from his body. The only thing that was still intact was his brain, perfectly preserved in his miraculously untouched skull, so that he may still feel his shattered body and suffer in a limbo of consciousness and amnesia. His brain was spared only to allow it to feel the messages of pain sent from his shot nerves.

But then his lungs heaved. Sweet, sweet oxygen fed his blood and pumped his heart. It was like a dam broke and his blood was sent rushing out to the rest of his body. His limbs tingled and he was able to twitch a finger. His stomach echoed with emptiness and his lungs roared with the rush of air. His brain exploded with the recognition of familiar smells: dust and worn-in leather, freshly cleaned sheets, dirt-caked and earthy boots, and cold air. The other senses rolled through his brain like an oceanic wave: he felt the caress of cotton sheets beneath his trembling fingertips, and the cloud-like cushion of a pillow beneath his head. He felt the goosebumps rise on his flesh when a breath of cold air touched his skin. He heard the stroke of cotton pierce his ears when he moved his head. He tasted a hint of rusty blood on his tongue and felt a heavenly relief to his tender throat as he swallowed. He heard a heavy silence and felt both a thick tension and the chill of a presence that told him he was not alone despite the quiet.

He wanted to open his eyes. But for the first time since he became conscious, his brain reacquired the ability to _feel_ , not just touch, taste, smell, hear, and see. The thrumming of his heart and the coiling of his muscles like jack-in-the-box springs, ready to pounce, told him that he was afraid. Afraid of opening his eyes and feeling the black emptiness of demon eyes. He knew then that he did not, in fact, fall from a building and shatter every bone in his body. He was restored. He was cured. He was human. And being human for Dean meant being afraid and filled to the brim with greasy guilt. He was Dean Winchester, human again.

And, as he already knew, he was not alone.

He swallowed the bitter fear and pried his eyes open little by little. A bright yellow-white light attacked his sensitive eyes and he squeezed them shut. He heard the shuffle of fabric and the slap of skin against concrete before he felt a weight shift his bed and a satisfying warmth beside him. A hand touched his forehead and he sighed.

“Dean,” a husky voice called. 

The hand at his forehead glided down to his hand with a hesitant touch. Dean’s heart swelled and he attempted to open his eyes again, knowing whom he would find: a shadow blocked the worst of the light above him, and it took the general shape of a man with messy hair and a square jaw. Dean’s eyelids fluttered as his eyes adjusted to the light. Details of the man’s face before him became clearer: full, pursed lips; tired, squinted eyes; furrowed brow. As his eyes opened all the way and blurred in and out of focus, he caught the vibrant blue of Castiel’s eyes.

Despite the weariness of his bones and the soreness of his body, Dean felt the familiar ache of happiness bursting within his chest. His mouth twitched in a grin and he swallowed. His voice sounded like gravel beneath a boot when he said, “I better get some pie after all this.”

He need not medication nor painkillers when the sight of Castiel’s slanted grin was before him. Dean coughed and Castiel used the distraction to look away, but it could not hide the shine of wetness in his eyes. It took far too much strength for Dean to move his own hand, but he held his breath and gulped at the pain as he touched Castiel’s fingers in comfort. The gesture was small but it was enough to get the desired effect: Castiel looked down at his hand with surprise before looking back at Dean with a sad smile. It was all too natural. _When did this become easy?_ Dean asked himself. 

“I’m glad you’re here, man,” he whispered to Castiel. He coughed; the heave of his lungs rattled his bones and he squeezed his eyes to fight the pain roaming his body. When he opened his eyes he met Castiel’s worry-stricken face. “Thank you.”

“You –” Castiel began, but he looked away again. Dean twitched his finger again to stroke Castiel’s hand. Castiel inhaled deeply and exhaled with a shaky breath. “You barely survived the cure, Dean,” Castiel whispered. His eyes met Dean’s before they trailed down his face and to his neck where the puncture marks from the needle throbbed like a steady heartbeat. “I was so close to killing you.”

“But you didn’t,” Dean argued. It all came rushing back to him; the moments before he was cured rattled in his mind like a prisoner clanging against the bars of his cell. He remembered unbearable agony as the purified blood snaked through his body; he also, however, remembered the crack of Castiel’s ribs and the smear of blood that decorated Dean’s fist as he attacked Castiel. “I was closer to killing you,” he added with a gulp, “than you were to killing me.”

Castiel shook his head. “You weren’t you.” He sniffed and got up to retrieve the chair not far from Dean’s bedside. The rush of cold that replaced Castiel’s delicious body heat made Dean shiver. A new ache joined the ones already housed throughout his body, but it was a different ache, a bittersweet ache that spread through the arm that was closest to Cas. It was the familiar ache of longing. An embarrassing heat rose to Dean’s face. As Castiel made himself comfortable in the chair he brought over to Dean’s side, Dean closed his eyes and told himself to breathe.

“But I was,” whispered Dean when he opened his eyes. “I remember it all. And it was all me, Cas” – the sinking feeling of dread replaced the ache of longing and Dean gulped again – “it was all me.” Castiel shook his head and tried to tell Dean no, but the more he did, the more Dean remembered the awful things he said to the man beside him, the horrible wounds he inflicted upon him, the many scars he wanted to give him.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Castiel said, and he put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Immediately his muscles relaxed and he sank deeper into the sheets. “All we can do now is move past it.”

Dean closed his eyes. More memories of his time as a demon, memories from just a few days prior, relentlessly attacked his mind. The gist of it was blood. _Call it what it was_ , he ordered himself. _Murder. It was murder._ Thinking of the details meant hearing the screams of his . . . victims. 

“Can I?” he asked. He opened his eyes. He could still see the bodies he left in the wake of his desolation. There were so many. “Can I move past all of that?” His eyes stung and his throat felt thick. He swallowed. It tasted bitter. His eyes threatened to spill over. “Do you realize what I’ve done – not just to you, but others?”

Castiel stared at Dean a long time. Dean’s heart pounded against his chest and his lungs felt like they were being squeezed. It was getting hard to breathe. He found it hard to think of anything else other than the massacres he orchestrated. All he could do was stare into those baby blues and hope Castiel did not regret saving the monster lying before him.

“We cannot erase what happened to you,” Castiel finally said. Dean gulped at the air that found its way back into his lungs. He closed his eyes. A single tear escaped. “We cannot erase what all of us did to get to where we are now. I know that; I have had to learn to accept that.” Dean opened his eyes and found Castiel looking away with shiny eyes and a trail of tears glistening off his cheek. Dean gulped. “But I also know that allowing myself to wallow waist-deep in guilt will do nothing.” His eyes trailed up Dean’s body and rested on his hand. Dean lifted his fingers hesitantly, testing the waters that were new for both him and the man beside him. Castiel sighed and rewarded Dean with a shy touch to his hand. “The guilt is still there; the need to shout apologies until my throat is raw is great. But I do what I can, and I save who I can, to try and make up for the lives I destroyed.”

Dean’s eyes spilled over and he looked away from Castiel. He felt the crushing feeling of self-pity and the suffocation of guilt blocking his airways. His stomach rolled and threatened to spill whatever was in it. He felt hopeless. He felt worthless. Castiel seemed to have come to terms with his mistakes and found some way to move past it. _Could I, after all that I’ve done?_ Dean asked himself. He closed his eyes again and felt Castiel press his hand into Dean’s. _Does what he say actually work?_

He inhaled shakily and decided to ask his questions aloud. He opened his eyes and found Castiel looking down at their hands. Castiel chuckled humorlessly and grinned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve only just started believing this.” Dean found it in himself to laugh, and Castiel watched Dean with a furrowed brow. Dean groaned as he lifted his arm up to wipe his face. “But it is the best method I’ve used so far.”

“Then it’s good enough for me,” Dean decided. 

There was a knock at the door. Castiel gave Dean’s hand a squeeze before he got up. Dean tried to prop himself up to a sitting position as Castiel cracked the door. A deep voice filled the room, the kind of deep that was loud no matter how quiet it tried to be. Dean huffed and sweat as he attempted to sit up, and his body hated him for moving so much. The muscles on his arm trembled with his weight as he shifted around. His back protested as he bent. When he finally leaned against the head rest he was exhausted, panting like he had just run a marathon. His eyes drooped.

“Dean,” Castiel called, “do you mind if we have company?”

 _Yes_ , he thought, but he said aloud, “Nah, it’s fine, I’m just dying.”

Castiel shot him a squinty-eyed, thin-lipped expression that said, _That’s not funny,_ before opening the door all the way to reveal the archangel. Dean did not know his name; he barely knew the purpose of this guy being here. He only knew that he was working with Castiel. Though his every instinct was to be on guard and find the nearest weapon, Dean took deep breathes. If Castiel trusted him, that ought to be enough for him.

“We haven’t met properly,” the man said. He was tall, probably taller than Sam, with piercing eyes and a commanding presence. “I am the archangel Sariel. I was the first archangel to suffer the desolation of the cage. The three of us have similar stories to share, I am sure.”

“I’ll pass on the sharing for now,” Dean jested, only slightly. “I just lived it. I’m good for another century.”

“It has been more than a few centuries for me,” said Sariel, “and I do not believe I will ever retell my story without sorrow.” He and Dean shared forced grins. Dean decided this archangel was all right.

“Sariel will come in to heal you over the next couple days,” Castiel explained. Dean raised an eyebrow. In truth, he would rather have Castiel heal him, but he would wait until the archangel left before declaring such an embarrassing want. “He is an excellent Healer. I won’t do nearly as excellent a job as he.”

“Give yourself credit where credit is due, Castiel,” Sariel replied.

“I can go to another room if you two want to keep flirting,” Dean interjected. When Castiel shot him a sharp squinty-eyed stare, Dean winked. The hint of a smile danced at Castiel’s lips. “So are you here for a healing session? Can Cas stay?”

Sariel shook his head. “No, I came to retrieve Castiel. He requested that we wait until you were awake to reunite him with his grace.”

“You’re still human?” Castiel nodded. Dean adjusted himself. “Cas, you should have just done it while I was out. You shouldn’t have waited.”

“You’re more important.”

Dean would be telling a dirty, dirty lie if he denied the rush of joy that swept through his body. He opened his mouth to protest, to reply with a snide comment, but he found his mouth too dry to form words. He instead looked away and grumbled about the angel having too high of an opinion of him and how he was a “stubborn son of a bitch.” Castiel must have heard, for Dean heard his rough snigger.

Sariel cleared his throat. “So, if you don’t mind, Dean, I am going to borrow Castiel.”

The request slipped out of his mouth without his permission: “Could I watch?”

Sariel and Castiel looked at each other with creased brows. Had he the strength, Dean would have slapped himself. He felt the heat rush to his face. He wanted to pack his bags and relocate himself to a cave in the mountains. 

“You won’t actually be able to _see_ it,” Castiel said. “You will have to shield your eyes. The light may burn you.”

“That’s okay,” Dean said far too quickly. “I just . . . I want to . . .” Dean looked down and shut his mouth tight before he could dig himself deeper into the whole he dug. 

There was a moment of silence before Dean heard the light _tap tap_ of bare feet walking towards him. When he looked up, Castiel was at the foot of his bed. That’s when Dean really looked at him. He looked so human: he wore a plain white t-shirt, a gray hooded jacket, and, of all things, plaid pajama pants. From the sound he made when he walked, Dean had to guess he was barefoot. His eyes met Castiel’s sky blues. 

“If you really want to,” Castiel said, and Dean gulped, “you may.”

When Sariel pulled the vile by the chain hidden beneath the button up he wore, Dean held his breath. He had seen grace before: Anna, the fallen angel, had hers swinging on a chain held by Uriel. It swirled with hues of blue and seemed to whisper. Castiel’s was the same. It was hard to grasp that the wispy blue-white smoke dancing within the vile was what made angels the formidable warriors that they were: it allowed them to perform miracles and it allowed them to smite monsters with a touch; it granted them wings and true forms that melted the eyes of those who saw them. Yet it fit into a vile no bigger than Dean’s hand. 

Castiel looked upon the grace as though it were a long lost friend from whom he drifted away with time. Like he was sorry. Dean could only imagine: was it like reuniting with one’s soul? He could only remember one instant he witnessed of a human reuniting with a soul, and that was Sam when he saw his literally tortured soul, against which he fought. _I don’t think that’s a good comparison,_ Dean decided as Castiel grabbed the vile with shaking hands. He appeared hesitant, not reluctant. Seeing the grace separated from Castiel made Dean decide that the grace was not who Castiel was; it was only a small part of the whole of Castiel. It was not his soul; it was not his other half. It was simply what made Castiel an angel, and he had been entirely him without it.

The vile popped open and the swirling essence within slowly snaked out. It seemed to be following its own path. Castiel regarded it with hopeful eyes and a rapidly rising and falling chest. He opened his mouth, closed his eyes. The grace took no time in forcing itself down his throat.

When Castiel opened his eyes again, a waterfall of impossibly bright light spilled forth. Sariel commanded, “Shield your eyes!” and Dean reluctantly looked away. He wished he could have seen the transformation: was it physically evident? Did Castiel’s bones shift as his wings burst forth from his shoulder blades? Did he scream in silent pain? Dean remembered Anna ordered him and his brother to shield their eyes as well, but she was frightened, screaming. Castiel made not a sound; the only sound in the room was the high-pitched whining the angels usually made when they were trying to speak with their true forms or using their powers. The whining became too much; Dean had to cover his ears.

It was over in a second. The whining stopped. The bright light became a dull glow. Dean shifted his hungry eyes to Castiel. He was awe-struck. Castiel panted heavily and his shoulders slumped, but behind him were the shadow of his magnificent wings. The wider they spread, the taller Castiel stood. His eyes became unbelievably bluer in the glow of his grace. In mere moments, he had embraced the angel within, and he stood tall. Sariel looked proud.

“Awesome,” Dean breathed, and Castiel shrugged with a smarmy grin.

Sariel said his goodbyes and made a promise to heal Dean in a couple hours. When the door closed behind him, Castiel came over to sit in the chair by Dean’s bedside. “How do you feel?” Dean asked.

“In truth,” Castiel sighed, “exhausted, but I cannot sleep. I already miss being human.” Dean chortled before he was hit with a bout of coughing. He groaned in annoyance. “ _I_ do not need sleep,” Castiel said, and Dean met his worried, tired eyes, “but you do. I can leave you be, if you –”

“No,” Dean interrupted. He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably. Little bugs burrowed through his skin and his heart beat like a drum. Castiel simply grinned. “No, I, um . . .” Dean was beginning to sweat. The room was too hot. His face was too hot. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to say, “It’s okay, you can go if you want, I’m going to sleep,” but what almost came out – the thought that crossed his mind – was, “I want you to stay. Whatever that implies.” He opted to groan and hiss in pain as he shuffled and laid down, grumbling, “Never mind, I should definitely sleep: my brain is fuzzy and I can’t think straight.”

Dean turned over on his side so his back faced the newly restored angel. He could practically _feel_ the tilted head and squinty-eyed expression Castiel most definitely wore. Dean ignored the pounding of his heart and the longing to turn around and face Castiel. This was too new. This was too open. Recent events had left Dean too raw to express a want for intimacy.

“Dean,” Castiel softly called. Dean wanted to bury his face into his pillow. “I can stay, if that is what you want.” Dean wanted to bury his face into his pillow so deep that he would suffocate. “You are allowed to ask me to stay.”

“It’s hard,” Dean whispered. His throat was dry and sore, and that had nothing to do with the ordeal his body went through. “This . . .” He hissed as he rolled over onto his back to look at Castiel. “Whatever _this_ ” – he waved his hand back and forth in the space between them – “is, I don’t know how to . . . I mean, it’s . . .” A grin slowly pulled at Castiel’s lips, and Dean wanted to punch him. He groaned loud and long and swiped his hand down his face and stopped at his mouth. “Damn it, Cas,” he finally said, and the man in question gave him an unabashed smile. “This isn’t easy. Fuck, man.”

 

“Sleep,” Castiel commanded with a smile. He reached for the book Dean had not realized was on his nightstand. He could care less about its title. There was a piece of ripped paper made into a make-shift bookmark sticking out of the pages about two-thirds of the way into the book. “I will be here, watching over you.”

“Fuckin’ sap,” Dean murmured. Castiel rolled his eyes as he dove into his book. 

Dean adjusted himself to try and find a comfortable spot for a good fifteen seconds until he gave up. Nothing seemed to be truly comfortable. The bed seemed too wide. Too empty. He was telling himself, _Don’t you dare, you motherfucker, you keep your mouth shut_ , but it was useless. He, as he thought once before, was a man of his senses, and he craved touch. After everything he went through, after all the self-deprecation, he wanted to feel whole. And the man who could help him was sitting beside him. Did he not come to that realization moments before he turned back to human? _I am a broken man, but Castiel can help keep me whole_ , he thought against his will. He and Castiel did not go through everything they did – switching places, vowing “my life for yours,” and declaring a need for the other – just to deny what was there. The elephant in the room needed to be acknowledged.

“Uh, Cas?” Castiel looked up far too quickly from his book. Was he even reading? “Do you want to . . . ?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. Dean wanted to crawl under the bed. “Maybe you could . . .” He took a deep inhale and held it. He could not find words. Asking was far too much. He chose to instead look at Cas, the bed, and Cas again, hoping beyond hope the angel would understand and not make him say it aloud. Castiel followed his eyes and looked between Dean and the bed with a blank stare. A chorus of _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,_ played like a broken record in Dean’s mind and he threw his arm over his eyes in surrender. _Please forget I asked_ , he prayed. _Please just keep reading._

Dean felt warmth and weight on the bed. He uncovered his eyes a moment to investigate, and to his disbelief, Castiel had sat upon the bed. Dean’s heartbeat echoed in his ears. His cheeks burned. He told his brain to _shut the fuck up_ and he inched over as painlessly as he could before turning on his side with a grimace of pain. Castiel stretched out and turned on his side to lay facing Dean. He looked as confused as Dean felt awkward and disbelieving. Castiel’s eyes did not leave Dean’s, and Dean was too dumbstruck to look anywhere else. His brain had well and truly shut the fuck up, and he blinked. 

Then he felt daring. _Might as well, right?_ he asked himself. _He’s already in bed with me._ He gulped before reaching out his hand. To his utter disbelief, Castiel did not hesitate to reach for Dean and lay his hand atop Dean’s. His thumb twitched and stroked Dean’s skin. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,_ sang the chorus in his brain again. _I’m not going to sleep now._

Yet, when Castiel whispered, “Sleep,” Dean’s eyes felt heavy. He had accomplished finding a comfortable position in this bed. He was warm; he was content; he was whole. Exhaustion coiled around him like a blanket. In minutes, he was asleep, and Castiel still lay there stroking his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is the end, folks. The last chapter. 
> 
> I cannot tell you how much your support and the comments (lookin' at you craziriot and DarkTARDIS) has really encouraged me to keep posting and writing. I have a short story sequel in the works -- and I do mean _in the works_ \-- because I'm busy with school ( ~~and maybe I procrastinate~~ ) and other things, but I do want to continue it. If that is something you want, let me know. I mean, I may end up posting it eventually, but it will take a while. It will tie up some loose ends left in this fic and really end it all, because I had a hard time actually writing a concluding chapter and an epilogue.
> 
> ANYWHO. Thank you all for your time. You are all lovely.


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